


A Traitor's Choice

by blackgoliath



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical themes, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, My baby I needed to save him, Oral Sex, Pedophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trauma-Induced Flashbacks, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-08-22 20:09:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 64,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16604687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackgoliath/pseuds/blackgoliath
Summary: What if Aimeric didn't betray them?





	1. The Price of Love

**Author's Note:**

> sew I marathoned the captive prince trilogy in like....two days over the weekend, and I fell very in love with Aimeric only to be VERY SAD at what happens to him. so, I decided, you know what, I want an au where he lives
> 
> so here you go. spoilers of course for Captive Prince, The Prince's Gambit, the short story "Green for a Season", and, later, Kings Rising. 
> 
> characters belong to C. S. Pacat I'm just crying all over them

When he was summoned to see the Regent, Aimeric's heart soared in his chest.

Six years. That was how long it had been, since the Regent visited Fortaine, since he came quietly to Aimeric's bedroom one night. At first, Aimeric had been nervous, his pulse fast as a rabbit and stuck up in his throat, fingers curled tightly around the blanket covering his lap. He'd been sitting up, because he knew this would happen; his father had told him, earlier that day. _The Regent has taken a liking to you_ , he'd said. _He'll come to you tonight._

In a family his size, when he was the youngest son, nobody ever took a liking to him. He was superfluous, extra. But the Regent, the ruler of Vere, liked him. _Him._

It didn't matter that he'd never done anything like what the Regent wanted of him before, or how the thought of it made his stomach churn, his palms slick. When the Regent had come to his room that night, ran his hands through Aimeric's curls, told him what a lovely boy he was, he'd fallen. That gentle attention, that soft voice, those kind words...his first instinct, when the Regent had come inside his mouth after instructing him, patiently, on what to do, was to choke, to spit it out, but the Regent had said _Swallow it_ so he did. And he'd been told he was a good boy, he'd done so well.

The next three weeks had been a bliss like nothing he'd ever known. The Regent kept him close by, regarded him fondly, told him over and over again how lovely he was, how good, how sweet. Showed him, every night when he came to Aimeric's room, that he was wanted.

And then it had ended, and the Regent had left, and never come back. Never wrote, never sent any messages with his father for him. Aimeric went back to being an unwanted mouth to feed, scrabbling for the scraps of motherly fondness left after Loyse had taken care of all of his siblings. He'd spent a lot of nights that year sitting up in bed, watching his door, hoping, _l_ _onging_  for the door to open and he'd see that smile again, those kind eyes, that attention that was focused only on _him._

Because he was wanted.

And now, six years later, after joining the Palace Guard rather than taking a position in court like he'd wanted, it seemed his waiting may have paid off. Aimeric tried not to hurry through the halls of Arles, tried not to let a bounce show in his step. He didn't want to let his hopes get too high; after all, this could be a routine meeting, something to do with his father. Or, Aimeric thought, the edges of his joy hardening in his gut, his oldest brother, who'd secured a position beneath their father, with a bright future and likely a spot on the Council ahead of him.

The latter thought weighted down the happy bubble in his chest enough that he could keep his gait even, his features smooth, the rest of the way to the Regent's apartments.

Yet he couldn't stop the thrill that ran through him as he turned down the corridor for those apartments. There were multiple rooms, of course, some for his pets, some for other matters. Doors flanked both sides, and Aimeric found his gaze flicking back and forth between them. Though impossible to tell from the outside, he knew that behind one of these doors was the Regent's personal chambers...he swallowed, forcing down the heat he could feel threatening to creep up his neck and cheeks. There were guards everywhere, and he couldn't let them see him flustered.

The room he actually ended up in was more of a smaller version of the meeting rooms used for important court members and foreign dignitaries. It was done up in the usual Veretian custom, a scheme of deep reds and golds with smaller versions of the Regent's standard hanging on the wall behind a neat desk. The Regent was there, alone, seated and pouring over a large leather-bound book. There was no sign of his current pet, and Aimeric felt nearly light-headed with relief. Good. It would just be the two of them.

When he entered, the Regent was looking up from his book, though his features showed no sign of familiarity. Something coiled deep in Aimeric's gut, until the door quietly clicked shut behind him, and the Regent's expression changed.

And there it was. The smile he remembered, the kindness in those blue eyes. The _care_. Aimeric's breath caught in his throat, and it took him a moment to get out a, “Your Highness,” as he kneeled.

“Aimeric. You're early.” Though he closed his book, the Regent didn't get up when Aimeric did. “I hear you are punctual to your duties. I'm very glad to see that it's true.”

Again, that flush threatened to darken his complexion, and it's all Aimeric could do to keep it down. He couldn’t keep the pleased smile from crossing his face, however. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“You're welcome.” Those eyes traveled down Aimeric's frame, then back up, and this time he _did_ flush, unable to keep the color from his cheeks. He'd been told by his mother, on those few occasions he could steal time with her, that it made him look more beautiful. Yet something in the Regent's face changed, and he almost looked...sad, instead.

No, that wasn't it. He looked disappointed.

“You've grown, I see.” Yes, it was disappointment, and Aimeric struggled to understand why. He must be imagining it, he thought; it had been years since he'd seen the Regent. He couldn't read his expressions the same, anymore.

So all he said was, “Yes, Your Highness.”

There was a pause in which the Regent continued to watch him, those blue eyes seeming to dress him down to his very core. It was enough that he almost started to squirm, questions piling upon one another in his head ( _Why didn't you write? Why didn't you come back? Did you miss me?_ ) when there came a knock at the door, similar to that which had heralded Aimeric's own arrival.

With a simple, “Come in,” as Aimeric watched in silence, it took everything he had not to gasp in shock when his father stepped through the door.

“Your Highness.” Ambassador Guion closed the door behind him, bowing first to the Regent before even acknowledging his son. And when he did, it was with a brief glance before his attention was gone once more. It didn't hurt, anymore; Aimeric had gotten used to that, over the years.

What ached was that his time with the Regent had been interrupted, and whatever personal moment they could have was now impossible.

Except...the Regent stood up, then, and instead of approaching his father, approached Aimeric. He could feel how sweat began pooling beneath his leather armor when the Regent came within reach, how his eyes involuntarily widened and his breathing slowed to almost nothing. And then the Regent stepped closer, closer still, until they were a breath apart, Aimeric looking up into his eyes, only just remembering not to close his own when he felt the barest brush of fingers against his cheek. The Regent was so close; he smelled the same, a light perfume that hid a woody scent, and his fingers were stroking Aimeric's jaw, thumb touching his lower lip.

“I've missed you,” the Regent said softly, and Aimeric forgot his father was there with them. He forgot everything, his focus narrowing to this, to those fingers on his skin, that soft voice. “I know I haven't been able to come to Fortaine again, and I'm sorry. There's been much to do, here. Little time for visiting those I care for.” The thumb moved up, to his cheekbone, and Aimeric felt his eyes flutter. His father didn't make a sound in the background, not that he would. He saw more intimate moments in court every day. “But I'm very glad you've joined the Guard. You've proven yourself an exceptional recruit, and I have something to ask of you.”

“Yes?” Aimeric asked, breathier than he meant to. Then, quickly: “Your Highness?”

“My nephew has his own private guards, as I'm sure you are aware.” Aimeric stiffened, though he nodded. “And, as I'm also sure you are aware, he has been a...disappointment to me, as of late. I had hoped he would grow to be more like his brother, but that seems not to be the case. He fights me at every turn, berates me, goads me...”

The Regent sighed, a soft, sad sound, the weight of years of his remaining family treating him like rubbish. Aimeric's heart, already his, went out to him.

“This will be a great task, and I wish I didn't have to put such a burden on your shoulders. But I know your strength of character, and I believe you will be up to the responsibility.” Though his hand dropped to Aimeric's shoulder, the Regent's eyes locked onto his, and he said gravely, “Will you transfer to the Prince's Guard, keep an eye on him, for me? As much as he has pained me these last few years, I don't want to see him hurt himself or anyone else.”

While Aimeric stood taller, felt stronger beneath the initial praise, the mention of the Prince hit him like a blow. The _Prince,_ a cold-hearted, spoiled brat who sat around enjoying the pleasures his _uncle_ had given him, not lifting a finger to do anything but amuse himself. Anger and jealousy tangled together into a tight ball in his abdomen, adding to something that had been growing these past six years as he watched Arles from afar, as he'd heard tales of Prince Laurent from his father, all the ways that weakling took from his uncle before spitting in his face.

His jaw set in a stubborn way that had become a sign back home, a tell that he was about to pick a fight. Instead, he said, “I will, Your Highness.”

A squeeze of his shoulder, and the Regent smiled. “Good. I'm very happy to hear that. Guion, will you tell him what this will entail?”

He stepped away, returning to his desk. The lack of his close presence was like dunking himself in a bucket of cold water; Aimeric had to catch his breath, even as his father approached him. There were scrolls in his hands, ones he recognized as maps once they were unrolled. His father moved to a low table at the side of the room, away from the Regent's desk, away from the source of the warmth that had so briefly filled Aimeric's body. He didn't allow himself to glance back more than once, as his father began to speak. He needed to focus. He had a mission, now: watch the Prince. Report back to the Regent. And if he did, the Regent would reward him; that much was obvious. His skin still tingled where he'd been touched. If he was good enough, the Regent would love him again, the way he had six years ago.

He had to be good enough.

\- - -

Being part of the Prince's Guard was not, as Aimeric had expected, much different than that of the Regent’s. In fact, it may almost have been harder. The Prince, apparently, had high expectations, and pushed his men to meet all of them, with no room for maneuvering no matter the status of your birth. In the Regent's Guard, Aimeric had received some leeway, some privileges for being the son of an Ambassador and Council member. Here, despite his nobleman's voice, despite his relations, despite his _l_ _ooks_ , he was just another soldier. Just another man, equal with all the other men. It was odd...and almost refreshing, in a way that caught him off guard.

A glaring problem he had was with how base the other guards were. Low of status, practically in poverty, almost all of them were commoners before being chosen by the Prince to serve him. It made Aimeric scowl to himself in the darkness of the barracks, late at night when they were meant to be asleep, but his thoughts blossomed too fiercely behind his closed eyelids for that. Of course a lowly man such as _Laurent_ would choose such scoundrels for guards. It was disgraceful. They were all ugly as sin, with manners to match; the only one Aimeric could stomach looking at for more than a few moments was Jord, who was certainly dark like a commoner, yet carried himself with a surprising determination and patience in comparison to his comrades. The rest of them looked like they'd been in too many bar fights, skin craggy and red, noses lumpy, eyes too close together or bulging from their sockets. Aimeric, lowest son as he was, had still grown up among pampered bodies, smooth and fair, and much of the Regent's Guard in Arles came from higher-standing families, which meant they generally shared that type of company.

Yet, for all of that, what Aimeric found most insulting of all was how _loyal_ they were to the Prince.

They spoke of him in crude ways, of course, speculating at his sex life, on how he had no slaves, no pets, how he was too frigid to take anyone to bed. Yet, unlike the Regent's Guard, these words were laced with fondness. If anyone outside their company spoke against the Prince, it would very nearly come to blows, and sometimes did. Aimeric didn't understand it. What was it about the Prince that inspired such protection? His beauty? So what if he was beautiful, that didn't change the fact that he was an ungrateful twat.

Though there were times that stuck in Aimeric's mind. When a slave was being harassed or publicly injured, and somehow Laurent would manage to seem bored even as he talked the slave's tormentors into letting them go. How he would come up against Govart, time and time again, without flinching, and undermine the man's cruelty in some way Aimeric didn't notice until later. How he had stopped and allowed a sticky-fingered toddler, having escaped from her parents, to hug his leg while looking up at him and giggling before her prostrating mother dragged her away.

How his interactions with Nicaise – when Aimeric could pull the curtain away from the jealousy clouding his gaze – seemed to almost...bring out a playful side in them both.

As a guardsman, he saw a lot of things. And despite what his father, his brothers, may think, being the youngest didn't mean he was stupid. The problem was that some of what he saw didn't fit with what the Regent told him, and so he pushed them away, locked them into a box in his mind. The Regent had said that the Prince was a rebellious, uncaring weakling, and the Regent was always right. Aimeric could not doubt the words of the man he loved.

And yet. As time passed, there was something about that loyalty, that respect, that he began to understand. Like it or not.

\- - -

Aimeric didn't pick many fights, in the Prince's Guard. There were times that he wanted to, times when one of the soldiers would say something about the Prince, show how much they _desired_ him, and it made Aimeric's blood boil. But he held his tongue, and poured himself into practice instead, taking out his frustration on practice dummies and, on occasion, other guardsmen in the training room.

He didn't let himself feel the sting when he found himself on the ground, over and over again. He kept getting up, instead.

And his perseverance rewarded him. Soon after his nineteenth birthday, he received a letter from the Regent, delivered by that pet of his, Nicaise. Aimeric didn't pay attention to the boy's haughty pose, or the way he stared as Aimeric tore the ribbon off the roll of paper. It didn't matter that the Regent hadn't spoken to him since that fateful day in his apartments, because here was proof of his care, his belief, unrolling itself in Aimeric's waiting hands.

Something complicated passed over Nicaise's face, and Aimeric didn't see it. He was too absorbed in the letter, in the curves and lines of the Regent's handwriting. It was brief, and to the point: the Prince would be setting out for Delfeur, which, as part of the Guard, Aimeric already knew. It was the details that he didn't, how he should set the men the Regent sent against the Prince's, how he should sow distrust, undermine any efforts to bring the soldiers together. How he needed to make sure Laurent was weak at the right times for ambush, or embarrassment.

That was also, in a way, expected. What captivated him was the words inked into the paper at the bottom. Words that he ran his thumb over, carefully, savoring the feeling of their grooves against his skin.

_Forever yours_

When Aimeric finally looked up, Nicaise was no longer there. Of course; the pet would have wandered off by now, bored without attention. Unimportant: he was loved, and noticed. Aimeric pressed the letter to his chest, fingers curling carefully around the edges so as not to crumple. He would follow these orders, and at the end of it all, they would be together.

And Prince Laurent would be gone. Aimeric let the fantasy wash over him, the idea of a world where someone so unworthy of the Regent's attention would no longer be a problem. Where they could be together, as they had been, at Fortaine. Any rumblings of doubt in his mind were pushed aside by the force of his excitement at that future.

He re-read the letter over and over again that day, and when he at last fell asleep in his bunk, he was clutching it against him. Like the hand of a lover, held possessively over his breast.

\- - -

The men the Regent had sent to accompany them were, somehow, cruder than those of the Prince's Guard, which meant causing conflict should be easy. The Regent had known what he was doing, sending such men into the field with the Prince's Guard, men who would be quick to anger and slow to discipline. Which meant that would be the easy part of what he was here to do. What was harder was faking the loyalty, the love, that the Prince's Guard showed for their Prince in different ways. Aimeric would have to be openly adoring in order for his farce to ring true.

His father had said as much, in their last meeting before the Prince rode out for Delfeur.

It had come easier than he'd thought, and in quiet moments Aimeric told himself that was because he was good at acting the part. He'd trained for the court, he knew how to pretend. It wasn't that he actually _believed_ any of the things he threw at the Regent's men, that Laurent was a good Prince, that they were wrong to talk about him the way he did. He stubbornly didn't think about that old adage his father had told him, that a good lie held a kernel of truth.

In quieter moments, he thought about Jord, about the pride lurking beneath the admonishments he gave for Aimeric's fighting. About how Jord treated him, like he'd always treated him and the others of the Guard, like a worthy soldier, despite the whispers Aimeric knew lurked among the men that he was a soft aristocrat who would break easily in a real fight.

How Jord had to be the reason Orlant stepped in to help him, the first time Govart tried anything.

It happened the night after they left Chastillon, barely two days into the ride. The men had set up camp for the night, which had taken much longer than it should have – which seemed to be the standard that had been set for this trip. Aimeric, content enough with his earlier goading of Lazar that for once he didn't go looking for more trouble, instead settled down on a log near one of the fires. Two other men sat across from him, engaging in loud conversation, and Aimeric ignored them. He nursed a cup of water and let his gaze slide across the camp, to where Jord sat a few fires away, speaking with the Akielon slave. He felt the familiar simmer in his gut, and quashed it.

Lost in thought, he hardly noted the heavy weight that settled onto the log beside him, until a rough hand landed on his shoulder and gave it an unpleasantly firm squeeze.

“Heard you've been causing trouble,” Govart rasped, uncomfortably close to his ear, and Aimeric jerked away.

“I don't know what you mean,” he said. He tried to shift along the log, put more space between them, but Govart's hand dropped to his arm and held him in place. Aimeric swallowed down the fear bubbling in his chest – and the anger.

“Sure you do.” Govart leered at him, and Aimeric's pulse quickened. The fingers on his arm were curled painfully tight. “Someone oughta put you in your place, and I'm the Captain, so I guess it falls to me.”

Dark eyes in the flickering firelight raked along Aimeric's body. His stomach dropped, and he looked across the fire to where the other two men had been sitting, but they were gone, possibly having slipped away as soon as Govart appeared. There would be no help from them. Aimeric, feeling the fear and dread clawing up his throat, tried to pull his arm away, but Govart's grip was impossible to break. The man, so much taller than him, so much stronger, was already standing, dragging Aimeric up from his seat. His cup of water spilled to the ground.

“I'm not going anywhere with you,” he hissed, trying in vain to push away the hand on his arm. Govart's hold only tightened, and Aimeric bit back a whimper of pain.

“You don't have a choice.”

Aimeric hissed again, wordlessly, as Govart began to pull him away from the fire. He could feel the prickle of tears at the corner of his eyes, born of hopeless rage, because he couldn't stop this from happening, and he was so certain that no one else would. He'd stupidly chosen a fire away from the Prince's men so he could watch them, and now he was going to pay for it, as the thugs he'd been goading these past two days sat by and let him get what he deserved--

“Hey, Aimeric!”

The new voice had Govart pausing, though his grip didn't lessen, no matter how much Aimeric pulled. Orlant jogged over to them, disgust naked on his features as they slid over Govart's, before his attention landed on Aimeric.

“Prince wants to see you.” Orlant purposefully didn't look at Govart. “Told me to find you.”

“I've got business with him,” Govart said, grinning, but Orlant didn't back down.

“Yeah? You'll just have to wait. The Prince wants to see him right now.”

Aimeric looked up at Govart, saw the decisions warring on the man's face, glad that the darkness away from the fire hid the naked fear on his own. Govart would love to drag him away and ravage him, send him back broken to Laurent, but there was the possibility that Orlant would go and get the Prince and Govart's fun would be interrupted. He saw the decision made before Govart let go of him, shoving him back a few steps.

“Make sure you behave,” Govart told him, that horrible grin curling his lips before he stalked off to get his jollies somewhere else.

Aimeric rubbed at his arm where Govart had held him, and he didn't need to see it to know that, beneath his sleeve, the skin would be bright red. “I, I'll go with you to the Prince.”

“No you won't.” Orlant took him gently by the elbow and steered him through camp. “I lied, Prince doesn't need you right now.”

“You....?”

“Saw what Govart was doing from my seat, and I thought, I'm not about to let him screw over our men more than he already has.” Orlant pulled him down onto the log by a different fire, securely in the area where the rest of the Prince's men had settled. Across from them was Huet, who looked grimly smug at Aimeric's appearance.

“You're really too pretty for your own good, you know that?” Huet said, and Aimeric flushed.

“You and I both know he'd fuck a pig in a wig if it stood still long enough.” Orlant spat into the fire. Months earlier, that sort of behavior would have made Aimeric recoil, but he was used to the Prince's men by now. “That damned Regent, making him our Captain. I'm not going to sit by and watch him fuck our men for the next two weeks.”

Aimeric sat quietly, rubbing at his arm again, as Huet said, “Nothing we can do. We just have to wait until the Prince takes care of it.”

“Heh. He always finds a way.”

“What do you mean?” Aimeric spoke up, looking between the two men. “What can he do when Govart is the Regent's right hand man?”

“You'll see.” Orlant smirked at him, the firelight casting unflattering shadows over the crags of his face. “He always finds a way, our Prince. You'll know it when it comes.”

Aimeric, not believing there was anything the Prince could do to Govart, applied his usual tactic the next night: working at Lazar until the man shoved him into the dirt. It was Govart who showed up first, and Aimeric paid for the distraction of the night before with a smack across his face that had his jaw aching. But he weathered it, and when other men began gathering and Govart called out Jord for not keeping his men in line, the words causing anger to roil in Aimeric's gut, he weathered that too. It was worth it for the tension simmering in the air between the two sides of the men. All Lazar needed to do was come for Aimeric, retaliate for what he'd started, and the infighting would truly begin.

But Lazar didn't. He stepped back, and when he looked at Aimeric, something troubled passed over his face.

Fine. So he had a bit more needling to do. Aimeric set his jaw, returned to his tent. Maybe he needed a new target. Lazar apparently had difficulty following through; he'd have to focus on Orlant solely instead, Orlant who already was at the breaking point, who seemed ready to snap and beat someone senseless in Aimeric's defense.

He fell asleep with that plan solid in his mind, and then the next day, Prince Laurent defeated Govart in a duel, and completely ruined it. And it was, to his chagrin, entirely his own fault.

\- - -

The way the Prince fought...Aimeric had never seen it, hadn't been one of the guards who sparred with him in the training room back at Arles. He was too new. He looked around the gathered men as Laurent embarrassed Govart in front of them more succinctly than a verbal dressing down could ever have done, and noticed how the expressions varied depending on who the man worked for. Jord and the others of the Prince's Guard were not surprised, almost expectant; the Regent's men, on the other hand, were various levels of impressed and amused. The only one who seemed to share Aimeric's shock was that Akielon slave, his features more open than Aimeric had ever seen them. That was interesting.

Aimeric arranged his own face into what he saw from the Prince's Guard. It helped that somewhere inside him, now that the fight was over, he was unsurprised. The Prince was a manipulative weasel, of course he would hide a skill like this and reveal it only when it suited him.

In all honesty, the swelling of pride he felt when the Captain's rank passed to Jord was more unexpected than the Prince having some secret weapon against Govart. It's what led him to seek Jord out, that night, when he had retreated into the woods edging their camp, to congratulate him.

It's what made him shift his strategy, when the Prince kept them in one place for drills that left the men too exhausted to squabble with one another.

The drills were difficult. Aimeric had gotten used to the high standards of the Prince when they were in Arles, but this was different. In Arles, he was training for assassination attempts, and unruly commoners. Here, they were training for war, and almost all of the men were spades ahead of him in experience and skills. Aimeric was automatically disadvantaged, and that thought, like many things, angered him.

It was this anger that pushed him through drill after drill, that kept him going long past when his muscles should have given out, when his body screamed at him to stop. He couldn't stop. He couldn't show weakness, couldn't drop behind the others. Whenever he felt like stopping, dropping to the ground where he stood, he told himself: _You have to be good enough._

It became a sort of mantra, repeated on endless loop in his mind. The determination to meet that goal hardened into an edged blade that he brought to whatever challenge the Prince threw his way.

That first night, when the Akielon slave approached him as he lay slumped by a fire, the way Damen spoke to him had been enough to stir him from his fatigue. _It's your first time in a company?_ Aimeric felt his temper flare, the embers of his anger igniting.

“I can keep up,” he said.

The slave kept talking. Condescending to him, complimenting him as if Damen wasn't a _pleasure slave_ from Akielos. As if he actually knew anything at all about what these drills were, or why.

Aimeric tried not to grit his teeth when he repeated: “I can keep up.”

The Akielon sighed, and stood. _Good,_ he thought. _Crawl back to your master._ Except something, something Damen had said, worked into him, and without even meaning to he blurted,

“Wait, you really think Jord has seen it?”

\- - -

It should be easy enough, seducing the Captain. If Aimeric had Jord's ear, he could sway the men, and manipulate events so that things went the way the Regent wanted them to. Plus he had noticed, in all of the times he'd looked Jord's way (more of them unconscious than he realized) that Jord had begun looking back, too.

It scared him, a little. The idea of being with another man the way he'd been with the Regent. He hadn't been with anyone, not since then, despite the many advances he'd faced in the past six years. Even the pet his father had given him, a low-end thing gifted more out of propriety than actual meaning, had never been given the pleasure of his body. He'd wanted to save himself, all these years, for when the Regent came back to him, unwilling to believe he'd ever need anyone else.

Serving the Regent, however, came first, and so he would follow what he knew, and he would get through it, and he would be rewarded.

He dropped hints, here and there, about what he wanted. How he appreciated Jord, appreciated a man who could rise up from nothing to become a Captain of two hundred men. This was more truth than lie, and it rolled so easily from his tongue. He blushed naturally when Jord gave him attention, when they caught each other's eye across camp. It was so easy, and he told himself that was because he knew how to play this game, knew from his training to be part of the Arles court. The Prince may be a master of deception, but Aimeric was no novice, and he had learned early that his looks could take him a long way.

And when Jord was alone in the command tent after the Prince and his slave had left, Aimeric saw an opportunity.

He'd been cultivating this dance for days, and so he was certain he could bring it to fruition. Until he stepped inside, and saw how Jord was looking at the map, how his brow was faintly lined with concentration. It hit Aimeric that Jord didn't know how to read the map in front of him, which, from the tent's opening, Aimeric could see was filled with familiar symbols for troop movements. He'd studied maps like this as a boy, part of a generic noble's tutelage. He steeled himself, and spoke.

“Captain.”

His eyes were on Jord. He couldn't look away if he wanted to.

“I could take you through it. If you like.”

Though Aimeric was thorough and clear in his lesson, it seemed to pass in a blur. He told Jord what the symbols meant, followed the strategies laid out on the map, explained the tactics and how they were illustrated. He was acutely aware, as he spoke, of how close Jord was, of the man's presence, and his senses felt fine-tuned, his body buzzing with the proximity. He tried to keep that, and the sudden nerves dancing in his stomach, from showing. Jord had mentioned before that Aimeric was above him, but here in this tent, out on the field with two hundred men led by the one beside him, Aimeric had never felt that to be less true.

When he was done, Jord said, “Thank you.”

And then he said, “This Captaincy means a lot to me.”

Aimeric couldn't say what changed things. He found himself looking at Jord's lips, and then Jord's hand was sliding around the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. It was what he had planned, this kiss, the beginning of the Prince's downfall, yet. He hadn't planned for the way his heart pounded in his chest, for how Jord kissed him, like a man who had just been provided with the sweetest water he'd ever drank. When Jord pulled away, Aimeric was dazed, his hands curled in the fabric at Jord's shoulders, his mind full of cotton.

The next few moments felt automatic, trained into him from those three weeks with the Regent. His hands went instead to the ties at Jord's crotch, his mouth said, “Let me, I'm good at it,” because he was, he knew he was, and he could pleasure Jord right here to prove it to him--

But Jord stopped him. Seemed...sheepish, almost. Mentioned his tent, practically apologized for being of low birth, and Aimeric's mind swam. He stepped back, unsure, and again his mouth worked when his brain could not.

“I won't let anyone see me. I'm discreet.”

While Jord walked out of the tent with an air of awe about him, as soon as he was alone, Aimeric spread his palms flat on the table that held the map, surrendering his weight to its support. He was ready to fuck Jord, he'd planned on it, but. Jord's behavior, turned over and over again in his thoughts, continued to baffle him. He was pretty, wasn't he? Huet had said as much, he knew the others thought so. Why didn't Jord want him right then and there, a quick, easy fuck? He glanced at the open tent flap, dismissed it. So what if others saw; that was standard fare, in the Veretian court. Was Jord... _s_ _hy?_

That almost made him giggle, a slightly hysterical sound that caught in his throat. He stayed that way, bent over the map, working to control the nervous shake of his limbs, before he finally left the command tent and made his way to Jord's.


	2. Handling It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aimeric sets a new plan in motion, but he may not be ready to deal with the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very grateful to the NYPL library system for letting me keep Prince's Gambit on my phone for repeated viewing when I have to check on specific scenes, lol. but I'm really enjoying writing this, so renewing that over and over again is definitely worth it.
> 
> anyway, today's theme is: poor Orlant.

The first night they had sex, Aimeric silently cried himself to sleep.

When he'd entered Jord's tent, an arm had curled around his waist even as the tent flap swung down behind him. Instead of pushing him down, asking him to finish what he'd started in the command tent, Jord kissed him with that same slow, hungry energy. It robbed Aimeric of his thoughts, made his knees weak. He hadn't expected this. He should have planned for this.

_ You have to be good enough-- _

The mantra was interrupted by the careful way Jord stripped him, removing his clothing layer by layer. He stopped Aimeric from dropping to his knees, carefully pushed away the hands that tried again for those ties on Jord's pants. Aimeric whined, asked why Jord wouldn't let him, and Jord said, “I want to see you.”

It made him blush, of course, and it made Jord blush, too. And then Jord laughed a little, kissed Aimeric's cheek and said, “I told you I wouldn't be what you're used to. If you'd rather not--”

“No,” Aimeric said quickly. With how they were pressed together, he could feel Jord's slight start of surprise. “No, I, I want to do this.”

Jord never asked him to put his mouth around his cock. Jord didn't seem interested in it, despite how Aimeric kept trying to steer things that way. He knew how to suck a cock, he knew how to pleasure a man like that, but Jord kept turning it around. He insisted on touching Aimeric first, his hands and his lips exploring each inch of skin he uncovered. He insisted on curling his hand around Aimeric and carefully stroking him, that same patient watchfulness Aimeric knew so well on his face as Aimeric arched and gasped beneath him. He insisted on softly asking if Aimeric wanted this, with an oiled finger pressed against the entrance to Aimeric's body.

It wasn't what he knew. His eyes dark, pupils wide, his skin flushed, he found himself saying yes, over and over again. He did want it. He  _ needed  _ it. Please, Jord.

Jord didn't turn him over, didn't push his face into the bedroll. Jord took him from the front, their eyes locked, interrupted only when one or the other leaned in for a kiss. Having someone inside him was a sweet ache that built into a taut, coiled spring, and when Aimeric came he wrapped his arms around Jord and buried his face in the crook of his lover's neck, muffling his sobbed cry.

They lay together, after, for a long time, until Jord reached for a nearby cloth to clean them up, and then rolled onto his side so he could press his chest to Aimeric's back. It didn't take long for Jord's breathing to relax into something steady and slow, while in his arms Aimeric remained awake, staring at the edge of the tent, his lower half pleasantly sore in a way he'd never experienced. He wrapped his hands over the arms Jord had brought around him, closing his eyes and curling as much as he could without disturbing the man behind him.

He'd been with the Regent every night, during those three weeks at Fortaine. He'd pleasured his highness, and only sometimes after would those gentle hands wrap themselves around his cock and give him release. That was the sex he knew, when he was pleasing a man who loved him but understood that his place was on his knees.

Sex with Jord wasn't like that at all. In a traitorous corner of his mind, when comparing the two, he found sex with the Regent lacking, where Jord was....he tried to push it away, tuck the idea into the same box that held any doubts about Laurent's character.

He didn't realize he was crying, as he drifted off. He didn't realize until the morning, when he stirred and found the dried trails of tears on his cheeks. He was quick to wipe them away before Jord noticed.

\- - -

He didn't turn Jord's ear. He could have, in the many times they were tangled together after sex, Jord's face pressed into his hair, arms around his chest. Whatever Aimeric tried to come up with, what advantages he should press into Jord's subconscious as they lay together, deserted him whenever he saw the man beside him. Felt Jord's breath against his temple, the soft, easy rhythm of it. The words wouldn't come, in those moments.

He told himself that the Regent needed him to do this. That worked, outside of Jord's tent, steeled his resolve into continuing on. But inside Jord's tent...the Regent's voice in his head grew quiet, overrun by Jord's soft, gentle words, his touch, his unhurried desire to give Aimeric as much pleasure as he could.

It hurt, sometimes. Not physically; Jord was always careful. But Aimeric's heart would hurt, when Jord would look at him, openly admiring, Jord's hands on Aimeric's body, coaxing him gently to climax, often with very little care of his own. As if what Jord cared most about in these encounters was Aimeric's pleasure. As if his own pleasure was simply watching Aimeric, watching how he arched and moaned, how he responded to that touch and that mouth, rather than the reverse. It made it all the more intense, and sometimes that brought tears to his eyes, tears that he made sure to wipe away before Jord could see them. 

More than that, sometimes sex with Jord was just.  _Fun_ _. _ Sometimes Jord would pin him and grin at him while he wiggled, or playfully nip at his ear. He'd poke Aimeric in the side, make him laugh, bump their noses, and a warmth would fill him when it made Jord smile.

So he didn't try to sway him, told himself that Jord would be very difficult to sway, anyway. He’d always been extremely loyal to the Prince, and Aimeric had yet to ask why.

Instead, Aimeric focused on a different plan. In the most recent letter from his father there were instructions for the Regent's next move against Laurent. Several men had been paid by the Regent to start an uprising, and Aimeric would help them. It ought to be easy; even with all the training they'd been doing the past two weeks, Aimeric knew a lot of the Regent's men still didn't like the Prince, and could be spurred to ride against him. And, in the chaos of battle, Aimeric would find a way to have the Prince cut down - if he had to do it himself.

The perfect opportunity came unexpectedly, when the Prince decided he had business in Nesson-Eloy.

Aimeric had been led back to Jord's tent, the two exchanging secret smiles as they went. Aimeric's heart fluttered whenever Jord looked at him, and unlike those nights in Fortaine when nerves would fill him before the Regent came to his room, he was excited for what was coming. When they reached the tent, Jord suddenly took his hand and pulled him inside, and Aimeric laughed, putting up no resistance. 

“I've been thinking about this all day,” Jord murmured against his lips, and Aimeric pressed against him, feeling as though he were floating and only Jord could keep him grounded. 

It wasn’t long until Aimeric was naked and tangled in Jord’s bedding, trying to finish unlacing his Captain’s pants and continuously being distracted from it. Jord's fingers were inside him, and Aimeric let his head fall back as he rocked against them, moaning softly.

He felt lips on his neck, and he curled his free hand in Jord's hair, and then from outside they heard Damen’s voice calling for Jord.

Who sighed, resting his forehead on Aimeric's shoulder, carefully pulling his fingers free. “I'd better see what he wants, might be important.”

Aimeric covered up his annoyance by giving Jord a quick kiss. “Hurry back.”

When Jord went to the tent flap, Aimeric propped himself up in the bedding, making sure he was mostly covered. When Damen glanced at him through the open flap, he flushed all along his chest and neck. But it was worth it: he knew why the slave had stopped by. 

The Prince was going into town, and would not be back until mid-morning.

Aimeric's mind buzzed with this information, even as Jord let the flap fall closed and came back to him, brushing an errant curl off of his forehead.

“Sorry about that,” he said quietly. Aimeric smiled and lightly shook his head.

“It's all right. Captains can't shy from their duties.”

“You're right.” Jord's lip quirked, before leaning in and kissing him. “But until then, I'm all yours.” And Aimeric's heart skipped a beat as he pulled Jord to him.

Later, when the men were settling down for the night, Aimeric carefully made sure to seek out those men he knew were in the Regent’s pocket. It took some time, subtly gathering them, but when activity really died down he was able to get them all together behind one of the larger tents on the outskirts of the camp.

“We need to strike tomorrow morning, before the Prince comes back. And when he does, he won't be prepared for what's happening, and we can take him then.”

Aimeric looked at the rough faces in front of him. There were about ten of them, all hired mercenaries and thugs. Not his ideal company, but they were perfect for this task.

“Is that understood?” he asked, and they all nodded.

“Can't wait to take that icy prick down a peg,” one of them grunted. The man beside him laughed.

“And his goons. Been waiting to run one of them through for weeks,” said another. Aimeric felt fear curl in his gut, and he ignored it. Jord was a good fighter, he'd been reassuring himself of that since he got the Regent’s instructions. The Captain wouldn't get cut down that easy. He would be safe.

Aimeric just had to tell himself that until he believed it.

“All right. Back to your tents; you know the plan. I'll signal you when it's time.”

Aimeric watched them leave, some jostling each other and talking about what they'd do tomorrow. He frowned. They'd better keep their voices down or they'd mess up the whole plan. He waited for all the men to disappear into the camp before making his own way back; he couldn't be seen talking to them. As he stepped out from behind the tent, however, he thought he heard something, a rustling nearby. His pulse quickened, and he carefully rounded the corner in the direction he'd thought it had come from. If somebody was there, if they'd overheard--

There was nobody. Aimeric let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and picked his way back to his tent, where, alone, he slept fitfully.

\- - -

The uprising wasn't going as planned.

It had started out as it should have; those ten men hired by the Regent started a fight, yelling that they were tired of being driven to exhaustion every day by that bitch of a Prince and his Akielon slave. They set tents on fire, and some of the other Regent's men joined them as those of the Prince's Guard rushed over when they heard the shouting, trying to get a handle on the situation. But not  _ enough  _ of the Regent's men came to the side of those ten. Even Lazar, who Aimeric would have thought would be grateful for the chance, came to Jord's side when his Captain called for the men to take down this mutiny. In the end, there were less than twenty altogether, and as Aimeric ran to join the fighting, he swore under his breath. It wasn't enough. It wouldn't be enough to take down the Prince.

And that was before another wrench was thrown into the mix.

He didn't reach the main body of the chaos, where the most tents burned, where men battled brutally, swords flashing and clanging off of one another, cries filling the air when someone went down. Just as he grew close, someone blocked his path, sword drawn.

“ _ You, _ ” said Orlant, his face twisted, rage and betrayal etched into every line of his features. Aimeric's stomach dropped, and he went white.

There had been someone listening, last night.

“Orlant, what are you doing--” he tried, but Orlant cut him off with a yell and charged, swinging his sword to cut him down. Aimeric barely had time to draw and parry, the force of Orlant's blow rippling up his arm to his shoulder. These were not the attacks of a man who wished to incapacitate. Orlant was going in for the kill. And Aimeric knew, with his age and experience, that Orlant was better than him, and the chances that he died here were high.

He stepped back, drawing Orlant away from the others, meeting his next swing with another parry. His arm was already beginning to go numb.

“Orlant!” He let his terror show. “What are you doing?! I have to help Jord!”

“You lying bastard! You  _ traitor! _ ” Orlant swung again, and again, their swords clashing, and Aimeric kept moving back. They were getting farther from the main body of the fight, now, and with all the yelling and the sound of swords, no one should be able to hear them.

“I trusted you!” Aimeric was drawn back to the fight at hand by Orlant's words and a jab that Aimeric only just managed to dodge aside from. “We all trusted you, and you were working with the Regent the whole time!”

The venom in his words stung; it was the thickness of his voice, however, the held-back tears, that tore at Aimeric's heart. “I'm doing what's right for my family,” he said desperately, “You have to understand--”

“ _ Shut up! _ ”

The next series of blows were too quick, too strong for Aimeric to waste any concentration on speaking. He was being driven back, back toward the edge of camp. He could feel himself tiring; with each time their swords met, his arm grew more numb, his breath more labored. He had to keep looking back to make sure it was clear, that he didn't trip on anything, that he didn't fall, because if he mistepped at all, Orlant would be on him. He knew there was no way for him to press an advantage so he kept giving ground, kept hoping for something he could use against Orlant, distract him--

His distraction arrived, glorious in the mid-morning sun astride his horse, in the form of Prince Laurent.

Aimeric altered his course, letting Orlant press him back toward the Prince as he quickly dismounted. He hoped Orlant was too far gone, too angry and hurt to realize what Aimeric was about to do, as he repelled a particularly strong blow and used Orlant's recovery to turn and run toward Laurent.

“Your Highness!” he called, “Your Highness! Thank the skies you came, there's been an uprising--”

And Orlant, good, protective, angry Orlant, charged right toward them, screaming, “ _ I'm going to kill you! _ ”

With how they were positioned, Aimeric having run as close to the Prince as he did, it wasn't clear who Orlant was coming for. Aimeric yelled, “Your Highness, look out!” and stepped between them, seeing the moment it registered in Orlant's eyes what had happened. It was too late; Aimeric met Orlant's sword, and he felt the collision jar through his entire body. Orlant, enraged further, didn't stop to try and explain. He gave a wordless shout and attacked again, and this time Aimeric wasn't ready, still recovering from that last blow. His sword came up too slowly, and when Orlant's slid along it, the tip drove itself through Aimeric's shoulder.

Pain exploded along his arm, pain greater than any he'd ever known. But he couldn't stop, or this would be the end for him, and everything he'd worked for would be for naught. Pushing past the agony, Aimeric used the moment to get his sword under Orlant's arm and drive it through his chest.

Orlant made a sound, a horribly wet, choked sound. He stared Aimeric in the eyes, fixated him with his final glare before Aimeric watched the life leave them as Orlant crumpled to the ground, dragging his sword out of Aimeric's shoulder as he did so.

The Prince came up beside him, looking down at Orlant's body as he handed Aimeric a wad of cloth. “You're going to want to put pressure on that,” he said coolly. “Now, let's see what this uprising is about.”

Numbly, Aimeric followed Laurent back through camp, Orlant's face as he died locked in his mind's eye. Even the pain in his shoulder, the heat of the blood seeping into the cloth under his hand, faded into the background of his consciousness. He kept seeing Orlant's face, the fury in it, the knowledge that Aimeric was going to get away with this. He felt empty, as if he'd been cut open and his insides scooped out, leaving him nothing but a shell. When they reached the middle of camp, they saw that the fight was essentially over, and Jord was reassembling the survivors. The camp was in ruins, tents broken and burned, strewn along the ground aside the bodies of those who'd been killed. Aimeric noted distantly that all ten of the original instigators were among the dead, as well as a few familiar faces from the Guard.

“Your Highness.” Jord, bloodstained and dirty, greeted Laurent first. When he saw Aimeric behind him, saw the bloody cloth pressed to his shoulder, concern flashed in his eyes before he hardened back into the Captain. “There was a small rebellion while you were away. We managed to stop the men at fault, but we lost about two dozen men in the fighting.”

“With a company of two hundred, that can be counted as a small blessing.” The Prince surveyed the wreckage, before looking back to Jord. “Is Paschal seeing to the wounded?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Good. If my command tent is still intact, I would like to discuss this further with you there. Aimeric, you should see Paschal before you faint and someone has to carry you to him.”

Aimeric started, which jarred his shoulder and sent another wave of pain through his arm and back. He hadn't realized how he'd looked – gritting his teeth, breathing through his nose, face ashen. Rather than speak, he nodded and picked his way along the body-strewn ground to where Paschal was tending to the wounded.

Paschal told him to sit, and he did, watching the physician work in a haze. As his injury wasn't life-threatening, he didn't need immediate attention, so he was able to wait there in silence, replaying Orlant's death over and over again in his mind. The guilt was already trickling through his shock, a sickening snake coiling in his belly. He was already hearing the whispers going around the men as Orlant's body was brought over to join the rest of the dead in preparation for their funeral pyres, how Orlant had snapped and attacked the Prince. How Aimeric had stopped him.

His blood beat a tempo in his head, a litany of  _ wrong, wrong, wrong. _ Orlant was going to be remembered as a traitor, and Aimeric, a hero, when it was the other way around. Aimeric blinked, then shook his head. No, that wasn't right; Orlant was unfortunate collateral damage in the mission to stop the Prince. He had to die, or he would have ruined everything Aimeric was striving toward.

The thought didn't make him feel better. It made him feel worse, and made his stomach churn, and he found himself leaning over and expelling his breakfast all over the ground.

Sometime in there Paschal saw to him, ignoring the mess in the grass as he worked. Then Damen returned; Aimeric, distantly, noticed him pass, and then join the tent the Prince and Jord had taken over in the aftermath.

Jord was in the tent with them for a long time, and Aimeric, eventually growing tired of sitting next to his own vomit, got up and wandered the camp. He didn't go near the pyres, his feet taking him instead to where his tent was. It was mostly intact, which was a blessing, though he had been prepared for it to be damaged. It should have been; the fighting should have been large enough, gone on long enough, for the whole camp to be destroyed. He'd underestimated the effect these past weeks of training had had on the men, how it had formed ties that kept many of those originally assigned by the Regent under Jord's leadership. With a strong Captain leading them, instead of Govart, they had mostly banded together.

Pride warred with annoyance. Of course Jord would be capable enough to keep it from turning into what Aimeric had planned for, what the Regent had planned for. He should have kept that in mind. He should have planned around it.

_ You have to be good enough. _

When the Prince gathered the troops together, after he and Jord and the Akielon finally left his tent, he had bad news: there was an ambush planned for them in the pass ahead. And they were going to leave tonight, and meet it head on.

While some of the other men nodded, grimly determined to get the Regent's forces back for the morning rebellion, Aimeric felt the news like a weight on his chest. His father had not mentioned anything about an ambush in his letters. Had they assumed Aimeric would fail? That the uprising wouldn’t succeed, and so they needed more, of which Aimeric was not to be a part?

He tried to push the doubts away – the Regent didn't want that information in too many hands, the letter could have gotten intercepted, what if someone in the company saw it – and it didn't work. The dark cloud of worry mingled with the hardening stone of guilt forming in his chest. He worked with the others, after Laurent's speech, to prepare to leave, and halfway through he couldn't do it anymore. His determination, his anger, that which had pushed him through so much in the past, deserted him now, leaving him with the cold throb of Orlant's death, of the Regent's lack of trust. Eventually, he wandered away from the camp, not thinking about where he was going, until he found himself among the nearby trees. One in particular, gnarled and twisted with age, seemed to call to him and the emotions swirling inside him, and that was where he stopped, resting his hand on one of the lower branches.

He stood there for a long time, listening to the wind, the shuffle of leaves and creak of branches above him. He didn't expect anyone to come find him, until he heard soft footfalls behind him, and a hand gently pressed against the small of his back.

“After the first few times, you stop throwing up,” Jord said.

From that point of contact, where Jord's hand rested gently against his back, Aimeric felt warmth spread out through him. That touch steadied him, brought him back from the dark scatter of his thoughts.

“I'm fine,” he lied. “I'm fine. I just. I've never killed anyone before. I'll be fine.” Let Jord believe that was what upset him the most. He remembered the look on Orlant's face as he died.

Jord was saying something else, and most of it penetrated Aimeric's mind, but what stuck the most had him drawing in a deep breath.  _ He was a traitor. _

“A traitor.” Even to his ears, the words were empty. “Would you have killed him for that? He was your friend.” Suddenly, the answer to that felt like the only thing that mattered. His heart rose into his throat, and when he turned to look at Jord, study his face, he repeated, “He was your friend.”

_ Like I'm your friend. _

_ Would you kill me? _

Jord stepped closer, bringing his arms around Aimeric's body. “You can't let it eat you up,” he said softly, and Aimeric trembled, his hands automatically sliding up Jord's biceps to rest on his shoulders. He allowed himself to be pulled into the hug, let himself lean against Jord, accept the support, the warmth and safety of his hold. Standing together like this, his mind began to clear, and the doubts and fears and guilt began to quiet.

It wasn't enough. He needed more, more to keep him from thinking about it. Lifting his head, he pushed his hands up into Jord's hair, curled his fingers in the soft strands. “Kiss me.” He pressed closer. “Please, I want--”

Jord didn't let him finish. His lip quirked at the corner, and he tilted Aimeric's head up, leaned down and brought their mouths together. Aimeric lost himself in the feeling of it, opened his mouth beneath Jord's, pulled him deeper into the kiss. Like always, his thoughts scattered, and he softly moaned against Jord's lips.

When Jord pulled away, he was panting slightly, his pupils wide. “We can't, not right now,” he murmured, and Aimeric’s disappointment was an icy shock to the soft warmth infusing his body. It must have shown on his face, for Jord cupped his cheek in one hand, stroking over the skin with his thumb. “We're going to be moving out soon. I have to prepare the men to face this ambush.”

Aimeric groaned, and buried his face in Jord's neck. His grunted, “I know,” was muffled, and he felt more than heard the chuckle that earned.

Taking Aimeric by the hand, Jord gently tugged him away from the tree, back toward camp. And Aimeric went, twining their fingers, feeling that his feet were more solidly on the ground than they had been all day.

\- - -

If Aimeric thought that fighting during the rebellion was bad, fighting in the dark, in a pass none of them knew, was worse.

He was part of the troop Laurent led, waiting for the fifty men headed by Damen to draw the mercenaries out into the open, so the two forces could trap the men in the middle. He tried not to fidget too much on his horse as they waited, knowing it would only make the horse skittish in turn. For this plan to work, they had to be quiet, and the anticipation of the men was nearly palpable.

Jord was near the front, by the Prince. Aimeric felt the absence of him at his side as an ache, akin to that which still pulsed in his injured shoulder. Even if he knew that was where Jord needed to be as Captain, it didn't stop him from wishing they could ride into this together.

When the attack came, it wasn't from the expected direction, and Damen's men were nowhere to be seen. Aimeric grit his teeth, cursing the Akielon to hell – until he appeared, breaking through the ambush, bringing his fifty men with him.

It was not an easy fight. Aimeric's senses were already on edge, and when the mercenaries attacked, he sprang forward, glad to finally have something to use his nervous energy against. In the dark, though, it was hard to see who he was fighting, which black silhouette was an enemy, and which was a friend. The pain in his shoulder wasn't helping either, and he felt it draining his energy, leaving every muscle in his body taut as he fought on through sheer will alone.

When the battle ended, it was so sudden that at first Aimeric couldn't believe it. The victory had been too quick; surely it wasn't over? But then the men around him were cheering, and Jord was calling them to line up, and so he did, limbs shaking, heart racing from a combination of adrenaline and fatigue, and when Jord caught his eye, even in the darkness, he smiled.

That night, the men were drunk off their victory, and, after a little while, their wine. While he hated the soldier's wine, tonight he partook of it freely, letting it take the edge off his exhaustion and pain. When Jord reappeared from his Captainly duties, Aimeric got up and draped against him, resting his cheek on Jord's shoulder.

He saw the way Jord's gaze flicked to the men nearby, how he took in their knowing smirks. Then he looped his arm around Aimeric's waist.

“How much have you had?” he asked, amused, his breath tickling across Aimeric's forehead.

“Not  _ that _ much.”

“Mhm.” Jord pulled him to the nearest log, and took the cup of wine someone passed him – Aimeric didn't see who it was. His attention was taken up almost fully by Jord. He inhaled deeply, taking in his scent, and was quite happy to stay pressed up against his side.

“You know, I don't think we'd've made it through today if not for you.” That was Huet's voice. “And that slave – he told you, yeah, how he kept us from being crushed by rocks?”

Against Jord's neck, Aimeric scowled. It went unseen as Jord's skin thrummed with his response. “Yeah, he told me. That was quick thinking.”

“A good chunk of us would be dead now, if it weren't for him.” Rochert. Aimeric's scowl deepened.

“He's been a lot more helpful to the Prince's plans than I would have expected,” Jord agreed. “He's got an eye for strategy, I've seen that much.”

Aimeric let out a puff of air, and the little jerk Jord gave was only noticeable to him. It dawned on Aimeric that it must have tickled, and his mood lifted, a smile curling his lip. He purposefully blew against Jord's neck one more time, enjoying the way it made him squirm, before pulling away and reaching for the cup Jord was holding.

“And what about the Prince himself?” he said loudly, taking a drink from Jord's cup before giving it back to him. “Doesn't he deserve  _ some _ of the credit?”

More sarcasm dripped into his words than he would have allowed when sober, yet the men didn't seem to hear it; instead they muttered their agreement, and started talking about Laurent's actions during the day. Aimeric tuned it out, reaching for Jord's cup again, and laughed when Jord playfully held it away from him with a, “I think I deserve a drink too, don't you?”

“You saved the Prince's life today, didn't you?” Rochert's voice broke through the fuzzy warmth of alcohol in his brain, and Aimeric froze. Jord must have felt it, for he curled his arm tighter around Aimeric's waist, and the rush of gratitude he felt was almost dizzying.

“I guess you could say that,” Aimeric replied carefully. He sat up straighter, pulling away from how he'd been leaning against Jord. The arm around him remained. “I didn't think of it like that.”

“So modest,” Huet cooed. “Orlant was a good man...and he was turned by coin. It happens, sometimes. I can only be grateful you were there to keep the Prince safe.” He raised his cup, and the others followed suit. Aimeric felt like he might be sick.

“To Aimeric,” Huet toasted, “For having the strength to cut down a friend to save his Prince.”

The men around the fire repeated the toast, knocking back their drinks as they did. Aimeric felt Jord's breath against his ear, heard the soft words: “To you, for doing what I don't know I'd have had the strength to do.”

Aimeric's stomach twisted painfully, and he ducked his head, earning jeers from the other guardsmen for his fluster. It was an easy lie to play along with, and after more drinking and hearty conversation, during which he stayed quiet, Aimeric excused himself. He wanted to be in fighting form in the morning, he claimed. Dawn was close. He only needed a few hours of sleep, and you all could use it, too!

He picked his way through camp, swaying slightly. It took longer than it should have to find his own tent, though this was a new camp, and he was drunk, and it was dark. He was already stripped down to his shirt, the leather discarded as soon as he'd finished pitching his tent, so it was relatively easy, even in this state, to get himself down to clothing comfortable for sleeping in. He was beginning to unlace his pants, just to give himself some breathing space as he slept, when he heard the tent flap open behind him.

Though he, subconsciously, knew who it had to be, Aimeric was still surprised when he turned to see Jord entering his tent.

“Hey.” Jord looked him over, took in the discarded leather armor and outer layers, and smiled. “Hope you don't mind me coming by.”

“Shouldn't you be celebrating?”

The smile turned sadder, and Jord stepped forward. “I think I've celebrated enough. I wanted to make sure you were...” He trailed off, looked away. “Today was hard on you.”

Maybe it was the wine making Aimeric's head spin. He heard himself saying, “You didn't have to leave just to check on me. I'm not a child, I'm handling it.”

Jord winced. “I, I know that. You've proven that you're capable, a hundred times over.” He came closer still, and while Aimeric remained in place, body taut, Jord gently brushed his fingers over the bandage on Aimeric's shoulder. “I don't need to be with the men to celebrate.”

This shouldn't be happening. That hard ball of guilt, lodged under his ribs, pulsed with the wrongness of it. He shouldn't be receiving this attention, after what he did to Orlant. He shouldn't be enjoying it so much, when his heart was the Regent's. Jord was a means to an end, Jord was a way for him to manipulate the company underneath Laurent's nose, Jord was--

Jord was touching his face, like he had under that gnarled tree only hours before. Aimeric could feel his cheeks heating, his pulse quickening. It pounded in his ears.

“I don't think I can have sex with you tonight,” he blurted.

Jord stopped, blinked at him. Then the confusion melted into a grin as he chuckled, and shook his head. “Of course not. You've had too much wine.”

“Oh.” A  _ does that matter?  _ came to his tongue, and Aimeric swallowed it, then carefully leaned into the hand against his cheek. “Would you...stay with me anyway?”

His answer came in the way Jord drew him forward, pressing a kiss to Aimeric's forehead.

“Yeah,” he said. “I'll stay with you.”

Aimeric's breath caught in his throat. His arms came around Jord, hugging him close, and Jord let him. That drumbeat of  _ wrong, wrong, wrong _ began to fade away, taking with it his fears that he was betraying the Regent by doing this. When Jord held him, it all faded into the background.

They didn't have sex. Instead, Jord stripped down to his own undershirt and pants, and pulled Aimeric against him on the bedroll. He kissed his temple, told him good night, and this time Aimeric slept soundly, hand curled around the one Jord had pressed to his chest.


	3. Turn Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With one last act, Aimeric will help his father and the love of his life bring down the Prince. It's everything he's wanted for the past six years, and it should be that easy.
> 
> Except that it isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really surprising myself with how quickly I'm banging these chapters out, though since I posted chapter 2 while partway through chapter 3, I can't guarantee chapter 4 will come as quickly. still! gotta take advantage of that writing bug while you've got it
> 
> this chapter does have an overt sex scene, as well as panic produced by flashbacks of trauma. not that Aimeric would call it that v:

“So,” Lazar said, “What's it like having an aristocrat suck your dick?”

The ambush was a day behind them, and the troop was relaxing after setting up camp for the night. Aimeric, finished with caring for his armor, had come to sit by Jord at the fire. As soon as he did, Lazar had turned to Jord and asked that.

Jord said nothing. Aimeric, taking the silence for what it was, instead turned to Lazar and said, “Amazing.”

He didn't need to look to know Jord was smirking, and pride in himself burst like a sunrise in his chest. Let Lazar and the others make their jokes, he could meet them halfway. Lazar even looked impressed, giving him a lazy grin. The sunburst grew brighter.

It gave him the confidence to turn on the Akielon and ask, “What's it like having a prince sucking your dick?”

That set off a flurry of discussion, as Damen said “I'm not fucking him,” and no one present believed it. But it took attention off of Aimeric, who hadn't, in fact, sucked Jord off. He wanted to, and he planned on it, at some point. He simply found it difficult to not give in when Jord quietly pleasured him instead.

When he tuned back into the conversation, they were talking about how it would be to fuck Laurent. Aimeric had to fight back his disgust; if they thought he was so cold, why bother speculating?

“You've served with him the longest,” he said at least, turning to Jord. The question burned hot on his tongue, one of a few he'd been meaning to ask for months. “Has he really never taken a lover? He must have had suitors. Surely one of them talked.”

“You want court gossip?” Jord asked, the hint of a smile in his tone, and Aimeric worked very hard not to flush. Yes, he did. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to know why Jord was so protective of this Prince, who, as Rochert had presented, was more like a man-eating panther than a person.

“I only came north at the beginning of the year,” he said instead. “I lived at Fortaine before that, my whole life. We don't hear anything there – except about raids and well repairs and how many children my brothers are having.” He couldn't entirely keep the bitterness from his voice, and it made the last of his words sharper than they needed to be. No one seemed to notice.

Jord's answer came, and Aimeric's back drew so taut it was nearly painful. _You think he's pretty now,_ Jord said. _Twice as beautiful as Nicaise, and ten times more intelligent,_ Jord said. Aimeric's fists balled in his lap, and for once, he was grateful for Lazar, who shifted things back to how Damen was fucking their Prince. And when Damen got up and left, the conversation shifted back to more mundane topics, such as their next move, and what the Prince was planning now.

Jord must have noticed the tension in Aimeric, because at one point he leaned over and murmured, “You okay?”

“Fine,” Aimeric said. His voice was tight. “It's admirable, how well you think of him.” He didn't elaborate, instead standing and excusing himself, and returning to his tent.

He retired to his bedroll much earlier than the bulk of the men. And when he heard a soft voice calling his name outside, he pretended he was asleep. Though sleep didn't come, that night; the sharp lump in the middle of his chest made it difficult to think about anything but Jord's words. _Twice as beautiful as Nicaise._ He curled in on himself.

It always came down to the Prince, didn't it.

\- - -

Jord left him alone, the next day. Aimeric expected it, after how he'd acted, and it seemed Jord would be busy anyway when a strange rider entered their camp. Initially he dismissed them as another messenger, until their hood fell back and, from afar, he saw that it was a woman.

Interesting.

He spent the rest of the day focusing on that, on why the Prince would be receiving women. He didn't know where she'd come from; her clothing showed no signs of who she was. It was a mystery that kept his attention, and kept him from thinking about Jord, from concentrating on that horrible throb that filled him whenever he remembered how Jord spoke of Laurent.

As the day wore on, as night fell and they camped again, a new layer of guilt fell upon him. Half the Prince's Guard wanted to fuck the Prince, of course Jord would too. He shouldn't have been so quick to anger, shouldn't have let his jealousy rule him--

He retired that night far earlier than any of the others. He didn't see Jord at all, and his hands trembled slightly as he reached for his tent flap. Then he heard his name, and quickly turned around.

It wasn't Jord. The Akielon slave was coming toward him instead. Aimeric tried not to hiss in frustration, and was only partially successful.

“Yes?”

“You shouldn't let it bother you.” Damen’s words made Aimeric jolt.

Angrily, he began, “Excuse me--”

“You shouldn't let it bother you,” Damen repeated. “Most of the men want to fuck the Prince, everyone knows that. But whatever he thinks of the Prince, he thinks twice as much of you.”

Aimeric felt the blood drain from his face. His temper was rising at the audacity of this slave to talk to him like this, to try and give him advice. His fists balled at his sides.

“How, how do you know what happened?” he asked, the irritation clear in his voice. “You weren't there.”

“No, I wasn't. I saw how he was looking at you today, though, and I talked to him.”

Aimeric’s heart constricted. He must have really upset Jord, if it was that obvious. That, more than anything, had the fire in his gut dying down.

“You, you talked to…?”

“He's in his tent right now,” Damen said, beginning to turn away. “You should talk to him.”

He took a few steps before Aimeric called “Wait!” and hurried after him. The Akielon looked back, watching Aimeric's face as he struggled with the words, before finally he said,

“I...thank you.”

Damen said nothing, only nodded, then left. Aimeric stood there a moment longer, chewing his lip, before he headed back into camp, toward the Captain’s tent.

Damen had been right; when Aimeric came up to the tent flap and finally got the courage to call Jord’s name, it opened and Jord appeared. He looked surprised.

“Aimeric?”

“Can I...talk to you?” Aimeric kept his hands curled at his sides. He didn't want Jord to see how they shook, clear evidence of his nerves.

After a long moment in which Aimeric thought he might heave, Jord said, “Yeah. Come in.”

He quietly followed Jord into the tent, staring at the ground as he did. When he heard the flap close behind him he said, “I'm sorry.”

Another pause, before Jord said, “Aimeric, it's okay--”

“No.” He swallowed, shook his head. “It's not. I shouldn't have...acted that way.”

Jord didn't say anything to that, and when Aimeric finally looked up, it was to see Jord watching him. He felt his cheeks slowly start to heat.

“What?”

“It's. Well.” Jord chuckled, glanced away. “I know you were upset, and I wanted to give you time, but it was. It was kind of cute.”

The blush grew worse, and though he couldn't see himself, Aimeric was sure he was bright red. “'Cute'?”

“Yeah.” Jord was smiling now, and though he was older than Aimeric, something about him looked so much like an awkward teenager that Aimeric couldn't help but laugh. He pressed his mouth to his hand, trying to hide it, and Jord's smile only grew.

“To think you cared that much about what I thought...” Jord trailed off, and Aimeric felt the bubble of laughter in his throat melt away when Jord shrugged. “I didn't mean to make you jealous. But I like knowing I can.”

Aimeric bit his lip, feeling it curl at the corners, and stepped forward, sliding his hands up Jord's biceps and letting them come to rest on his shoulders. “As long as you don't do it on purpose.”

Jord's hands settled on Aimeric's waist as he leaned down, breath ghosting over Aimeric's lips. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

And then he pulled away, grinning at the noise of disappointment Aimeric made, how he muttered, “ _Tease_ ,” under his breath.

“Now that you're here,” Jord said brightly, as if he hadn't heard that, “I was hoping you could teach me more about these maps. The Prince let me borrow one, and we've got some time. If you wouldn't mind?”

“I guess not.” Aimeric flopped dramatically down onto Jord's bedroll, purposefully angling his face away so Jord couldn't see the quiet smile playing over his features whenever he spotted Jord's grin. It didn't seem to matter; Jord still sat down beside him and softly pressed a kiss just beneath his ear, making him shiver.

“Take it easy on me,” he said quietly, and Aimeric found it very unfair that he had to spend the rest of the night tutoring.

\- - -

The ride to Acquitart was pleasant, for the most part. The weather was warming as they went further south, and Aimeric loved it. This was the summer he'd grown up with, and, despite the circumstances, he was grateful he didn't have to go a year without it. Sometimes, when they stopped, he would take a moment to stand still and let the warm breeze play over him, head tilted up toward the sun, eyes closed, curls rustling with the wind. Summer had been the season he loved the most, when he could run around Fortaine, alone as ever but able to find his own entertainment.

The memories glowed warmer in him when, during one of these introspective moments, Jord came up beside him and said, “I like you in this light.”

What sullied the trip was the commoners in the surrounding towns. As they rode to Acquitart, the people greeted their Prince with expressions of open adoration. Aimeric found it disgusting. If they actually _knew_ the Prince, they would be solemn with respect -

No. That wasn't right. If they actually knew him, they'd hate him as much as Aimeric did.

Acquitart itself was incredibly disappointing. Aimeric looked around as they entered the fort, noting its age, its small size. The Regent had known what he was doing when he left only this to Laurent. Aimeric fought not to wrinkle his nose in distaste when they passed through the town; the houses were rundown, the people poor, and Aimeric wondered if this was what Vere would look like, if Laurent became King.

Or if it would look more like the inside of the fort itself, which, Aimeric saw to his surprise, was actually well-stocked and ready for them. He hadn't expected that at all, especially when it was revealed that Acquitart only had one caretaker, an old man named Arnoul. He passed a critical eye over the lot of them as they arrived and began settling in, keeping tight control over where and how they stored their things. It took up a good chunk of the day, stabling their horses, caring for their armor, storing their tents for later use once they began the journey to Ravenel. By the time they finished it was growing dark and Aimeric had become antsy.

Acquitart, he knew, had royal residences, as did all keeps. And there were far more rooms than Laurent needed; he could use one for the night.

This conclusion, as well as what he wanted to _do_ with that room, solidified in his mind as he worked. So when he was finally done for the day, he went to find Jord.

Jord, who was heading to the barracks with the others until Aimeric stopped him by grabbing his arm. At the somewhat amused question in his eyes, Aimeric only grinned, sliding his hand down to take Jord's and start pulling him away from the barracks.

“Going to tell me where we're going?” he asked as they went. Aimeric, who was moving with purpose, flashed him a flirty smile over his shoulder.

“There are plenty of empty rooms in this keep we can use. I thought you might like seeing how the other side lives for a night.”

“I've seen how the other side lives, I'm in the Prince's Guard,” he said, and Aimeric could hear the smile in his voice. And the awkward, when he added, “I'd be more comfortable sleeping in the barracks.”

Of course he'd say that. Aimeric gave a quiet laugh. “That's because you've never slept in a royal keep's residences before,” he replied. “I promise it's much more comfortable than a tent roll or a lumpy inn mattress. And besides--” He stopped, turning and stepping closer to Jord. “I really want you to fuck me in a bed.”

He saw the flush that spread attractively across Jord's cheeks, even in the low light, as Jord said, “Come here, then.” His hand curled around the back of Aimeric's head as he pulled him close, as he kissed him the way he always did: long and slow, savoring the contact. Aimeric's arms came around his neck and he pressed closer. He felt like he could never get tired of these kisses, of the slow drag of Jord's lips over his own, the way Jord practically cradled him. Thinking about it had him moaning softly and pulling back, pupils wide and lips dark.

“Come with me,” he said, in more of a purr than he meant to, and he was close enough to hear the faint catch of Jord's breath.

It didn't take long to find a set of rooms he liked. Aimeric knew the general whereabouts of the residences; they were mostly the same, from keep to keep, and besides the men had to know where the Prince was staying. What hampered them most was that Aimeric kept stopping to pull Jord against him and get more of those kisses, giddy with desire, as if this were the first time. So he wasn't very choosy about which rooms to take, picking the second door they came across and dragging Jord inside.

The outer rooms were sparsely lit by the moonlight filtering in through the windows, but the bedchamber was not, the curtains drawn as if someone very private had stayed there recently. In the dark, it was hard to make out the color scheme of the chamber's decorations, though it was still easy to tell that they were of extremely high quality. Aimeric didn't have any time to wonder about interior design anyway, trying to pick his way across the room without tripping over anything, still dragging Jord along by the hand. He felt Jord jerk in his grip and swear, and laughed, calling back, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, just ran into something.” Jord moved more quickly, then, overtaking Aimeric, and before he could protest, had scooped him up and was carrying him the rest of the way to the bed. Aimeric laughed again, a high, clear sound as he clutched at Jord's shoulders.

“Gotten used to the idea, have you?”

“Maybe.” A flash of white in the dark was Jord's grin before he deposited Aimeric on the bed and got on beside him, crawling up over him on his hands and knees while Aimeric lay on his back, already warming under Jord's gaze.

“You're right,” Jord said, quietly, as he reached to undo the laces of Aimeric's shirt. “This is more comfortable than a tent roll.”

Jord liked to unwrap Aimeric as if he were a gift, taking his time with the laces on his clothing. Tonight, Aimeric didn't let him, untying things for himself when Jord didn't work quickly enough, then working on stripping Jord. It made him laugh, breathy chuckles in the darkness as he asked Aimeric what the hurry was, as their eyes adjusted and their shadowy silhouettes began to come into focus. Aimeric answered with an, “I want you,” that had goosebumps forming on Jord's bare chest beneath Aimeric's questing fingers, and Jord rumbled, “You have me.”

All it took was a light shove, Aimeric's hands against Jord's shoulders, to get him to roll over so that Aimeric could perch on top of him. He was already almost fully hard, and he could feel Jord's arousal against him as he straddled his hips.

“I want to do something for you,” he said, splaying his hands on Jord's chest. He felt more than saw Jord settle his own hands on Aimeric's hips, heard how he had to take a moment to swallow.

“And what's that.”

The playful tone had Aimeric's lip quirking, and he slowly, languidly slid himself down Jord's body, biting his lip at how Jord moaned when his cock brushed against the inside of Aimeric's thigh. He ended up pushing Jord's apart and kneeling between them, hands near where legs met hip, bending so that his breath ghosted over the tip of Jord's erection.

“You really want to suck me off, huh,” Jord said from above him, voice thick with lust. It sent a shiver down his spine.

“I do.” Aimeric carefully dragged his tongue along the very tip and he heard Jord swear, heard the soft rustle of fabric as Jord's fingers curled in the bedding. That was new; he wasn't putting a hand in Aimeric's hair, holding his head in place, not like--

“ _Run your tongue over the tip, that's a good boy.”_

A leaden weight dropped into his gut, and Aimeric's eyes sprang open. Suddenly he felt too hot and too cold all at once. He tried to push it down, push it away; it was a memory, that was all. He had no reason to be upset by it. He'd loved doing this for the Regent, and now he could love doing it for someone else.

Ignoring the sour taste in his mouth, he leaned back down, licked over the tip again, pressing the point of his tongue more firmly into the slit. Jord's desperate groan egged him on, and he cleared his mind, tried to fall into the rhythm he'd once known. His fingers rubbed teasing, light strokes into the sensitive skin of Jord's inner thigh as he ran his tongue up the shaft. Jord was breathing heavily, and when Aimeric glanced up he could see the glitter of Jord's eyes locked on him. Watching his every movement.

His arousal stirred. Gently pressing down Jord's hip with one hand while the other continued teasing at his thigh, Aimeric wrapped his lips around the tip and suckled lightly, heard Jord swear again, the muffled thud of his head dropping back onto the pillows. He moaned softly, heard the gasp that it earned, and finally slid his mouth down the full length of Jord's cock.

And--

“ _Don't choke, now. That's right. Relax your throat around it. You're so beautiful like this, so lovely. I can't keep my eyes off of you.”_

Aimeric gagged, practically throwing himself away from Jord. His chest was heaving, hand clamped over his mouth, limbs trembling. Jord was sitting up in an instant, arms coming around Aimeric and pulling him close until Aimeric's head rested against his shoulder.

“It's okay,” he was saying soothingly, fingers lightly scraping the scalp as they stroked through sweat-damp curls. Aimeric swallowed, struggled to pull himself together. “It's okay. You don't have to do that if you don't want to.”

“But I do want to!” It came out as a whine, and Aimeric grimaced, cheeks heating. “I, I do. I don't know why--”

“Maybe it's just not a good night for it.” Fingers beneath his chin had his face lifting, and they were close enough that Aimeric could see Jord clearly, see the way his brows were knit with worry. “We can do something else, or we can lie together for the night. Whatever you want.”

Aimeric buried his nose in the crook of Jord's neck, unable to look at him a moment longer. He burned with shame, from his core up to his cheeks, which he was sure would be beet red if there were light enough to really see it. He didn't know what was wrong with him, or why the Regent's voice kept making him feel that way. Secretly, somewhere he didn't let himself touch, he'd come to see sex with Jord as better, but that didn't mean he hadn't also loved pleasuring the Regent. Maybe...maybe it was too difficult, transferring an intimate act with the man he loved to what he was doing with Jord. Yes, that was it; that act was sacred because of what it meant, who it had brought to him.

Thus decided, Aimeric carefully pulled back to meet Jord's eyes. “I told you I wanted you to fuck me in a bed,” he said, stubbornly, “and I meant it.”

There was a long moment in which Jord didn't say anything, before he finally, slowly nodded. “Okay.” He pressed his lips to Aimeric's forehead, then repeated, “Okay.”

Relief eased the tension from Aimeric's body, and then Jord said, “What if I sucked you off, instead?”

The atmosphere shifted. “What?”

“What if I did that for you instead?” Jord grinned, a little sheepishly, and with a jolt Aimeric realized he was embarrassed. “I can't say I'm as good as you were, but--”

“No, I'd. I'd like that.” He moved in Jord's arms, and by the way Jord stilled, he could tell that just how _much_ he'd like that was now obvious. That simple suggestion had drawn his desire back from extinction quite effectively. “I've, no one's ever—”

Jord cut him off with a quick kiss, and pulled back just enough to breathe, “I'll be gentle.”

He was, as he turned them so he could push Aimeric back down onto the bed. As he kissed the hollow of Aimeric’s throat, then his sternum, continued down along his chest and stomach. Aimeric didn’t know where to put his hands, fisting them in the bedding, throwing them above his head to clutch the pillows. When Jord kissed the crook of his inner thigh, his whole body shuddered, fingers curling helplessly in silk. He felt Jord’s lip curve against his skin, and huffed.

“Are you just going to tease me all night?”

“I might,” came the husky reply, and Aimeric shivered. He shivered again when Jord lifted his head and pressed a kiss to the tip of Aimeric’s cock.

He didn't do things the way Aimeric would have. He mouthed down the length of the shaft, curled his tongue around the base and slid it back up. With the pad of his thumb he stroked the most sensitive skin between Aimeric’s legs, making them tremble and his breath come in quick bursts. And when Jord did take all of him in his mouth, easily clamping his lips around the base, he swallowed, and Aimeric gasped, with only Jord’s hand holding him down stopping him from bucking into that moist heat.

“Jord,” he moaned. Jord responded with a groan, and the vibration of it sent another shock of pleasure straight up his spine. Jord lifted his head, keeping the suction of his lips tight around Aimeric’s cock up to the tip, and then went back down again.

Aimeric couldn't stop shifting. His hips gave little thrusts against the push of Jord’s hand, all he could manage with that strong grip keeping him down. His palm pressed flat against the backboard of the bed, his back arching, his free hand curling in Jord’s hair. He must have tugged because Jord groaned again, and increased the bob of his head, and Aimeric squeezed his eyes shut. It felt so good, almost too good. It may have been inexperience talking, but Aimeric could only fuzzily think that not only was Jord as good as he was at cock sucking, he may have been better.

Jord took in all of him again, and swallowed around the head, and Aimeric’s toes curled, thighs shaking.

“Jord,” he rasped, as the familiar pressure neared its peak, “Jord, please, don't stop, don't stop I'm going to, _Jord--_ ”

The sentence finished on a wordless cry and he came, hard, inside Jord’s mouth. Jord held him down through it all, no matter how he jerked, until he melted back down against the bed, panting. He twitched when he felt Jord swallow one last time around his oversensitive, softening shaft, before pulling back completely.

“So,” Jord said, eyes bright, breath coming almost as quickly as Aimeric’s. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “What'd you think?”

“Amazing,” Aimeric breathed, and he didn't need to see all that well to know Jord would blush. His whole body felt pleasantly boneless, and it took effort to prop himself up enough to crook a finger at Jord. “Come here.”

Jord crawled back up beside him, lying on his side as Aimeric lazily wrapped his arms around him. He nuzzled against Jord’s chest, content to stay like that for a while, until something hard bumped against his leg. Oh.

“You should have said something,” he admonished quietly, reaching down to take Jord in hand, rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

“I would've eventually.”

“Mhm.” Aimeric heard the strain of untended arousal in his voice. He stroked Jord once, grip firm, and felt Jord press eagerly into his hand. “Don't worry, I'll take care of you.”

It didn't take long, either; Aimeric felt a thrill when his quick strokes had Jord spilling fairly soon, knowing that it was what Jord had done to him that had wound Jord that tight. He loved the way Jord responded to his hand, the ragged breath against his ear, the rock of hips into his fingers, and the shuddering groan when Jord climaxed into his grip. He didn't care that he came away with sticky fingers; it pleased him, in fact, and he made sure Jord was watching when Aimeric brought them to his mouth and licked them clean. The heady look this earned was intoxicating.

After they cleaned themselves up, Jord pulled Aimeric back in, and he pillowed his head on Jord’s chest. The strong, steady beat of Jord’s heart played like a drum beneath his ear, and it lulled him into a doze.

“I'm glad you convinced me to come here,” Jord was saying, and Aimeric hummed his agreement, eyes closed.

“It feels right with you here,” he mumbled, and if Jord said something in response, he didn't hear it, already lost to the soft warmth of sleep.

\- - -

In an ideal world, they would have lain together well into the morning. Jord would wake first, and kiss Aimeric awake, and then they would have sex again in the gray morning light, slowly, savoring their time together. Then they would lie around a bit longer before finally getting up for their duties.

This was not an ideal world. Instead, they were awoken by a loud pounding on the door, and Aimeric barely had enough time to sit up before someone was coming in.

It was Rochert. “Captain,” he said. Aimeric felt Jord straighten beside him; if Rochert didn't have a remark or knowing look for finding them like this, then it must be very serious. “News from Ravenel; the messenger just arrived. There's been an attack at the border.”

The keep was already busy with preparations, men running about the courtyard as they grabbed all of the supplies they’d stored away just the day before. Jord and Aimeric were quick to dress, and considering they were already in the royal residences, immediately went to wake the Prince and tell him what had happened. The rooms he had taken were a short walk from the ones where Aimeric had brought Jord, so it wasn’t long before they were standing before it, Jord’s knuckles rapping smartly against the door.

They waited. And waited. Aimeric glanced at Jord, who was frowning, and after another few minutes he knocked again.

And again, nothing.

“Wait here,” Jord ordered. “I’m going to get some men to go looking for him.”

Aimeric opened his mouth to protest, but Jord was already gone, walking swiftly away down the hallway. Once he was out of sight, Aimeric’s lip curled into a pouty frown. He didn’t want to play door duty for the Prince, who was off who knew where instead of in his rooms, where he should be. It didn’t help that after several more minutes the Prince didn’t appear, and Aimeric began to wonder why he was waiting at all. It was highly unlikely the Prince would get to this corridor before Jord or another member of the troop intercepted him in the courtyard, so why leave Aimeric here at all?

He was about ready to pivot on his heel and head in the same direction Jord had when the door before him opened, and out stepped the Akielon slave.

Damen came to an abrupt halt, clearly surprised. Aimeric looked at him, then the door, and back again. Damen’s shock didn’t completely hide the relaxed air that clung to him, and it certainly didn’t hide the tousled hair, the easy way he moved, the feeling of satisfaction that hung around him like a cloak. He looked like a man who was extremely, incredibly sated.

He looked the way Aimeric would have, if not for the interruption this morning.

“We knocked and there was no answer.” Aimeric couldn’t stop staring. “Jord sent men to find you.” _We’re not fucking_ , Damen had said, only a few days earlier.

“Is there some delay?” Laurent. As he stepped up beside his slave, he couldn’t look any more different, as if he hadn’t been fucked at all.

Aimeric stared at him, too. It took him a moment to gather his wits in order to actually answer. “The news came an hour ago,” he said. “There’s been an attack on the border.

\- - -

He’d never been to Ravenel, but he wasn’t intimidated. The fort was a brother to Fortaine, the  might that held Akielos at bay beyond Delfeur. He was used to a fortress like this, one built to withstand even the mightiest of armies, and as they road through the gate he felt a pang of homesickness. Ravenel was not Fortaine, and the differences were stark, yet it was close enough to where he had lived all his life before coming to Arles that it hurt, a sweet ache in his heart.

He steeled himself against it. They were here earlier than planned on urgent business; Akielos had decimated the town of Breteau. Aimeric found himself glaring at the back of the Akielon’s head the entire ride to the fort, and as Damen followed Laurent up the dais steps to greet Lord Touars. He didn’t stop until the two disappeared inside and the troop were led away, toward the barracks where they would be staying. He was grateful for the distraction, all things considered, as he and the other men began the same process they’d done at Acquitart the day previous. It kept his mind off of the nerves that had begun skittering along his skin.

His father was here. He’d known he would be; that was in the last letter Guion had sent him, after the failed rebellion. _I will be waiting at Ravenel._ His father would want to speak with him, and for once, Aimeric wasn’t looking forward to the attention.

He distracted himself further by spreading the news of what he had seen that morning. How Damen had appeared, sex-sated and rumpled, and how Laurent had come out soon after looking as perfectly put-together as ever. How clearly Damen’s excuses, his refusal to admit the truth, came from the fact that Laurent held the reins when they had sex and his pride didn’t allow him to admit it.

The Akielon was, Aimeric mused, very prideful for a slave.

Whatever the reasoning behind their arrangement, it seemed to bolster Damen’s reputation among the men, rather than sully it. As Aimeric watched from the corner where his bunk was located, Damen’s arrival prompted compliments, slaps on the back, generally friendly jeers as to what he’d accomplished that no one else had. Aimeric didn’t understand it. Shouldn’t they be angry? This was their precious Prince, being mounted by an Akielon, their sworn enemy. Why were they _celebrating_ him?

Aimeric’s mind provided all the examples he didn’t want to acknowledge. Damen leading the men, working them through drills, saving many from a rockslide. Damen, even as a slave, a man who was worth less than nothing, stopping by the tents of other men to give them advice…

He shook his head, abandoning that train of thought, and distracted himself with his duties. After a while, one of Touars’ servants wound her way through the barracks to Aimeric, quietly informing him that his father had asked for his presence. Aimeric nodded, following the servant out, slipping away unnoticed amidst all the bubbles of companionable mockery Damen was still receiving.

His father was waiting for him in a small study of Touars’, and as soon as he stepped inside, Guion dismissed the servant. The door closed behind her, and they were alone.

“Your part from here on out is crucial,” Guion said, standing straight with his hands clasped behind his back. There was no greeting, no inquiry as to how his youngest son was doing. Aimeric felt a familiar fatigue settle onto his shoulders. “The Regent is almost ready to make his accusation and bring the Prince in for treason. With your testimony, we will convince Lord Touars of his treachery, and the Prince will have no choice but to be brought to trial.”

“You know Laurent won't make it that easy for him,” Aimeric heard himself saying. “I'm sure he's expecting something like this. He's always thinking ahead.”

Guion stared at him, and Aimeric flushed. After a moment, Guion said, “That almost sounded like a compliment. Have you, too, become infatuated with him, like his rabble of commoners he calls guards?”

“N, No, of course not,” Aimeric said quickly. “I've just - I've been around him long enough to know that he's hard to kill.”

“I see.” Guion was still staring, but eventually the suspicious edge left his gaze. “Well, you need not worry about that. Our task now is bringing the pieces together so that we may accuse him.”

He walked to the desk, where several unopened letters sat. He chose one from the top and brought it to Aimeric. Even before he took it, Aimeric saw the seal - the Regent’s seal, pressed into wax. It was his first letter from the Regent himself since they'd rode out from Arles. Yet Aimeric’s heart didn't quite leap as it once would have, and that surprised him. He must be tired from the ride, if receiving a personal letter from the Regent didn't make him feel like flying.

His father was speaking again. Aimeric dragged himself back to the present. “So follow his Highness’ instructions exactly,” Guion was saying. He didn’t seem to have noticed his son’s lapse in attention. “Laurent's men will be riding to Breteau; they have three days. You should ride back the first night, and we will prepare your testimony for Lord Touars.”

Aimeric absorbed this in silence. When Guion was done, he nodded his understanding, then hesitantly asked, “What will happen to the Prince's Guard, if he's brought in and convicted?”

“ _When_ he's convicted,” Guion corrected. “And I imagine they will be put to death as co-conspirators, or turned out into the street. Why?”

“I--was just curious.” His mouth went dry as he imagined Jord kneeling in the court, a sword posed above his neck. At his sides, his hands shook.

“Mm. If that is all, then.” Guion made to leave, only stopping at the door to say, “Remember, come back the first night, and don't let anyone see you. The Prince must not know what we're planning.”

“Yes, Father,” he said automatically, and then Guion was gone, leaving him alone. _Your part from here on out is crucial._ Aimeric looked at the letter in his hands, then, working carefully so as not to break it, popped the seal and unfolded the parchment.

 _Dearest Aimeric,_ it began, and there was the flutter of his heart, the buoyancy of love. The instructions were simple, essentially what his father had just told him, but the language it was couched in had Aimeric flushing happily, a smile playing across his lips. If the joy was more muted than it used to be, if the smile was small instead of the excited beam with which he'd re-read the first letter in Arles, he didn't acknowledge it. This was proof that the Regent still cared about him, and once his part of the plan was complete, they would be together.

The way he ended the letter, however, the ‘ _Make sure you do not fail. I would not wish for you to face the consequences’_ before the signature, tilted Aimeric’s emotions. The Regent was right to say it, to remind Aimeric of the cost of failure, yet as Aimeric folded the letter up and tucked it away, he couldn't quite bring back the happiness he'd had reading it. Those few sentences had tainted it, somehow. The thought troubled him as he left the study, making for the barracks. They would ride to Breteau tomorrow, and the following night, Aimeric would sneak out and come back to Ravenel. And then, with his testimony as proof, they would accuse the Prince of treason.

Aimeric played it out in his head, imagined how satisfying it would be to spit that in Laurent's face. In his mind's eye, Laurent was with the Akielon when he told them, and for once Laurent's expression cracked, and Aimeric stood tall, knowing he had won.

Jord was not there. Aimeric could not insert Jord anywhere into that fantasy; even the possibility of it made him feel sick.

\- - -

They arrived at Breteau to find that Touars’ men had already taken care of a good chunk of the clean-up, though there was still a lot to be done. The graves were not yet completed, and wherever Aimeric looked, there were still bodies, men, women, and children all lying where they had fallen. Some clutched impromptu weapons, pitchforks or kitchen knives, shears or hammers, whatever they’d had on hand, and Aimeric felt a swell of fierce pride in his breast. Even when those Akielon monsters had invaded his homeland and tried to slaughter the entire village, his people had not gone down easily. They had fought back.

The sweep of his gaze took in the Akielon, at Laurent’s side as ever, and he felt a surge of rage so strong he gripped the reins of his horse until his knuckles turned white. It was _his_ people that had done this, all because some raiders had done a little damage to an Akielon border town. How he wanted to take down the slave right then and there; but he couldn’t, not yet. Damen would go down when Laurent went down. He had to wait until then.

In the meantime, he, along with the rest of the Prince’s men, tied their horses at the edge of the village and joined in on gathering the rest of the bodies.

It wasn’t hard work, not like the drills Laurent had made them run at Nesson. It didn’t exhaust him, not physically. The effect on his mind was a different story. Each body he lifted, he held for a moment longer than he needed to before taking it to the burial site. Each child he found, he stopped, looking at their face, wondering who they had been. Had this boy had a dog, had he liked playing in the fields outside the village? Was this little girl learning to sew? Did she have sisters? Were they loved?

At one point, he had to take a moment to breathe, roughly wiping at the tears that had begun to collect in his eyes. He couldn’t break down now; he was sure the men would find that worthy of scorn, the soft aristocrat crying over the dead, when they saw death every day. So he pushed it down, and kept working.

Later came the setting up of camp outside the village, and Aimeric was grateful to drag around tent poles and canvases instead of corpses. He did flounder, some, when one of the canvases he’d chosen to carry ended up being too heavy. Determined, he grit his teeth and dragged it across the ground. It needed to be functional, not clean, so what mattered was whether he brought it where it needed to go, not if he kept it free of dirt stains.

He stopped only once, when he looked up and spotted the Akielon nearby. Damen was not carrying supplies for camp; instead, he was carrying traveling bags. Aimeric frowned, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of a hand, leaving a smear of grime.

“You’re leaving camp? Where are you going?”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” Damen said, “If I told you.”

\- - -

The work wasn’t quite complete by the time dark began to fall, but the men knew there would be no point in burying bodies in the dark. While Touars’ men returned to their small camp, Jord ferried the Prince’s to the tents located several yards away. Aimeric was tired enough that, when he passed Jord and received a gentle squeeze to the shoulder, he could do nothing more but give his Captain a little smile in response.

The tasks of the day had been so mentally draining that Aimeric nearly fell asleep while he was bathing, sitting on a rock near the edge of camp with a bucket of lukewarm water beside him. He didn’t realize he was listing to the side until someone smacked his arm, and he startled, looking up to see Huet grinning down at him.

“There are easier ways to get Jord to carry you back to his tent,” Huet remarked, and Aimeric turned red. He made sure to finish up quickly after that, and the washing did restore some wakefulness to him.

Which was for the best, in the long run. Aimeric knew he would not be able to sleep that night until he made it to Ravenel, and even then he wasn’t sure how long his father would want him to talk through what he would tell Lord Touars. He could try to sleep a few hours before leaving, but he knew that if he did he would not wake up until the morning, and would be forced to face his father’s anger for arriving late to Ravenel. No, it was best that he kept himself awake, so when the men began retiring for their tents to the night, Aimeric went to his and kept an oil lamp burning as he re-read the Regent’s letter and mentally went over what the next few days would look like. The fantasy of wiping that calmly calculating look off of Laurent’s face replayed in his head, and he took some comfort in it.

When Jord came to his tent, as Aimeric thought he might, he gently turned him away. He was tired, he said. He just needed some time to be alone.

And Jord nodded, and kissed his forehead, and told him to sleep well. Watching Jord’s retreating back when he left, Aimeric saw him on his knees, sword posed above his neck.

It would be very easy to stay awake, now.

\- - -

Gradually, as the night drew on, the sounds of the camp dwindled to nothing. Aimeric slipped out of his tent, bags thrown over his shoulder, to complete darkness, the only sound the soft rustle of grass beneath a light breeze. He saw fireflies wink in and out of existence between the tents as he picked his way through camp to where the horses were tied. There would be men on watch, he knew - even now, nestled next to Breteau with Touars’ men nearby, someone had to be on the alert in case of another attack. But Aimeric knew the patterns of the Prince’s men by now, knew where Jules and Mehdi would position themselves, and had planned his departure in accordance. All he had to do was untie his horse and walk far enough away from the camp that no one would hear him mount and ride away.

He got as far as the copse of trees that lay near the camp, then stopped. He didn’t know why; he needed to keep going, complete the ride to Ravenel as soon as possible. His father was waiting, and once he did this, this one last final thing, he would be in the Regent’s arms once again. He’d wanted this since he’d first been tasked with infiltrating the Prince’s Guard, and now he was so close the fantasy of spitting it all back in Laurent’s face almost felt real.

Yet none of that made his legs move. Beside him, his horse began nibbling at the grass, ignorant to the struggle occuring inside her master’s mind.

Aimeric sucked in a breath, blew it out slowly. With the hand not holding his horse’s reins, he reached into his jacket and withdrew the letter from the Regent. He couldn’t read it in the dark, of course, but he could run his fingers over the imprint of the words in the parchment, press his thumb to the shape of the seal, as if pressing it into his flesh. He was so close. Ride to Ravenel, bring proof that the Prince was a traitor, and everything he’d ever wanted would be his.

He thought of Laurent, earlier that day, standing over a woman’s body and making a gesture of goodbye that Aimeric would recognize anywhere.

He thought of Damen, working alongside the Prince’s men to clean up a massacre his own people were guilty of.

He thought of Jord, kissing his forehead, telling him to get some rest.

Aimeric swayed on the spot, physically emulating his internal turmoil. He was standing on a knife’s edge, too thin to support him, and he was going to have to fall one way or the other, knowing that whichever way he fell would change everything.

In another world, he fell toward the Regent. He got on his horse and rode into the night, toward Ravenel, toward his father.

In this one, he didn’t.

Tightening his grip on the reins, Aimeric hissed under his breath and turned back toward camp. He’d just leave tomorrow night, instead. He couldn’t go when Breteau still needed its dead buried. He’d find some way to convince his father that it made sense - and besides, he still had no idea where Damen and the Prince had gone, did he? With another day, he might be able to learn their whereabouts from Jord, and add that to his testimony.

Yes, that was what he’d tell his father. He had to stay another day to get this extra piece of information, this extra proof to truly damn Laurent. As he walked back to the horses, brow furrowed while he turned these excuses over in his mind, he kept rubbing his thumb over the words of the Regent’s letter. He was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice the figure standing by the horses, nor the oil lamp they held, until he was mere feet from them.

When he finally did look up, he froze, his mind switching to _other_ excuses, why he was out so late, why he had his horse, neither Jules nor Mehdi were very smart, frankly, it should be easy to convince them--

Then the figure turned, and in the soft glow of his lamp, Aimeric saw it was Jord.

“Aimeric?” Jord, surprise clear on his face, held the lamp higher to broaden the light’s reach. “What are you doing out here?”

“I--” Aimeric swallowed, unconsciously clutching the letter tighter. He managed a sheepish grin, then lifted his horse’s reins. “I kept worrying I hadn’t tied Loy’s reins the right way, so I came out to check and found she’d gotten loose, and then I had to bring her back…”

Jord’s smile was kind, and Aimeric felt weak with relief at the clear acceptance of this lie on Jord’s face. “I wondered. I came out to--well. While I was up, I  saw that Huet’s horse was nearly loose, too; he must’ve been tied with yours.”

 _Or I didn’t untie her properly,_ Aimeric thought to himself. Which meant it was lucky he’d come back, because if Jord had found Aimeric’s horse missing and come searching, he might have seen Aimeric. His choice had been the correct one. He held back the bubble of slightly hysterical disbelief at how this had worked in his favor.

“Yeah, I think so. But I caught Loy and you kept Huet’s from wandering off, so we’ve successfully avoided disaster.” His grin was genuine as he stepped closer, pulling Loy along to retie her. He’d have his extra day, and then he’d leave for Ravenel, and tell his father how smart he’d been in remaining another night with the Prince’s men. Jord stepped aside to let him walk past, and Aimeric had nearly reached the post when he felt Jord’s hand latch onto his elbow, fingers tightening in a way very unlike him.

“Jord?” he began, turning, but Jord wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the letter, still clutched in Aimeric’s hand, forgotten in this unexpected discovery. The letter, still unfolded, with the Regent’s seal clearly visible in the illumination of the oil lamp.

“Aimeric,” Jord said, slowly. “Why do you have a letter from the Regent?”

The ground dropped away beneath him. Aimeric could come up with a simple excuse - it’s old, his father passed it along in hopes of swaying him, etc. Except the look on Jord’s face, the dawning understanding, had any words Aimeric found stoppering themselves in his throat. He could only stand there, mouth agape, eyes wide, and damn himself further.

Jord saw it all. He let go and took a step back, his hand instead dropping to the hilt of his sword. Because he was the Captain, and he was always prepared, and he would take his sword with him even for a simple piss.

“Aimeric,” Jord repeated, “ _Why do you have a letter from the Regent?_ ”

The slight _shick_ of steel as Jord’s sword was pulled an inch from its sheath kickstarted Aimeric’s brain. He finally found his voice, blurted, “It’s not what you think, Jord, it’s not--”

It was too late. “Tie up your horse,” Jord interrupted. His voice came out rough, while the grip on his sword was firm and unwavering. “Then come with me.”

Aimeric felt the weight of his own sword on his hip; he could draw right now, duel Jord, potentially kill him to make his escape. The option was there. Yet even though he knew Jord was a better swordsman and would certainly best him, Aimeric’s hands shook at just the thought of facing Jord in a fight with the intent to kill. He remembered Orlant’s face, the light leaving his eyes as they stayed locked on Aimeric’s.

Numbly, Aimeric led Loy back to the post, tied her reins firmly with those of Huet’s horse. And then, with Jord’s sword pointed at the small of his back, his hands in the air, he walked back into the Prince’s camp.


	4. In the Wasp's Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aimeric's treachery is found out before he can return to Ravenel, and his options shift drastically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was, in weird ways, the easiest and hardest chapter to write? it takes a lot to fight my 'but this is what canon said!!' instincts
> 
> today's theme: Laurent is KIND OF A JERK

There were some unmanned tents, left open for supplies and storage, and it was to one of these that Jord led him. Aimeric said nothing the entire time, allowing himself to be prodded into a dark tent and disarmed. It was only when Jord reached for the letter that Aimeric reacted, jerking away and clutching it to his chest.

“You can’t have this,” he said, nearly crumpling the parchment. “You can’t. It’s personal.”

It was impossible to read Jord’s expression, even with the light of the oil lamp. “I won’t read it,” he said at last. “But I have to take it.”

He grabbed the top of the letter and tugged, and it was only the fear of ripping it that had Aimeric letting go. Jord carefully folded it up and tucked it away; then, setting the lamp on the ground, he reached for a coil of rope stored in the corner.

“Your hands,” he said, and Aimeric presented them, loose fists brushing each other. Jord tied his wrists, then pushed him down onto the floor - more gently than Aimeric would have believed he could, in this instance - and tied his ankles.To finish the job, he looped the remainder around Aimeric’s middle and tied him to one of the tent poles. If Aimeric tried to escape, he’d end up dragging the whole thing with him.

That done, Jord stepped back, looking down at Aimeric, who had curled inward, his head bowed. Though not bowed enough that he didn’t see, in his peripheral, the way Jord clutched the place he’d tucked that letter as if it ached.

“Aimeric,” he said. There was a long pause, and when Aimeric dared to look up, he saw that Jord was staring off to his right. Eventually he asked, “Why did the Regent write you a letter?”

Aimeric hunched further. Here, in front of Jord, in the face of the tired way he spoke, none of Aimeric’s usual fire came to help him. He could only shrivel, the way he used to when he started a fight that ended badly enough his father needed to be called, and Guion would just look at him, exasperated to be forced into remembering he existed. His head dropped further, his vision focused on Jord’s boots and the ground beneath them.

“Just tell me why,” he heard Jord say, and he winced at the desperate note that threaded through it. “Why would he write to you?”

Aimeric didn’t raise his head. None of his court-trained charms came to him, and all he could do was mutter to the dirt, “It’s personal.”

Jord didn’t say anything for a long time. Aimeric kept his eyes on the ground, fighting not to fidget in that crushing, endless silence. He couldn’t look up; he didn’t know what he’d see, and the possibilities playing through his head hurt too much to face the truth. So he stayed as he was, and eventually, Jord spoke again.

“You’ll stay here until the Prince returns.” There was a quiver to it that almost had Aimeric lifting his head. Almost. “I won’t tell the men why you’re in here until he’s back. I can only...whatever your reason is, I can only hope it’s a good one.”

The rustle of a tent flap, and Aimeric knew he was alone. He stayed hunched against the pole at his back, knees drawn to his chest, face buried in the crook of his arms. He should have left. He should be halfway to Ravenel by now. The Prince was going to kill him. That look on Jord’s face, the slow dawning of realization at Aimeric’s actions, was going to kill him before Laurent could even touch him.

Drained, exhausted, Aimeric’s head tilted against his arm, and despite the dark cloud of fear swirling inside him, he slept.

\- - -

He was kept there for two days. Jord was the only one who came in or out, bringing Aimeric food and water or untying him enough that he could relieve himself. It was a long, humiliating affair, and when he was alone in the tent, Aimeric had plenty of time to let his anger build, hands flexing ineffectively against his bonds, teeth grinding. He formulated escape plans, picturing himself using those moments that Jord untied his hands to fight his way out, to use the ignorance of the men and run out of the camp, jump onto Loy, and flee.

Then Jord would enter the tent, crouch in front of him with a cup of water or a plate of food, and quietly ask him, again, why he had a letter from the Regent. And Aimeric’s anger, his drive to escape, would dissipate into nothing, until all he could do was sag in his restraints and stare at the ground rather than meet Jord’s eyes.

He didn’t answer those soft questions. He couldn’t. There was nothing he could say that would erase the distance Jord put between them when he asked, and so Aimeric said nothing.

And yet Jord kept asking in that quiet, insistent way. Aimeric wished he would yell, get angry, hurt Aimeric in some way to get the answer out of him. Listening to the disappointed sigh when Aimeric didn't respond was worse than any blow Jord could have given him, and it ate at him, until he began wishing fervently that the Prince would come back already, because he would rather face Laurent’s ice than Jord’s patience.

Finally, on the second day, he got his wish. He heard a commotion outside his tent, men running and shouting, and he sat up straighter, straining against his restraints as he tried to hear what they were saying. Someone came close enough for him to catch a _“The Prince is back!”_ and Aimeric leaned against the tent pole he was tied to, unfocused eyes trained upward.

The Prince was back. He would be sent for, and soon.

All he could do now was wait, and keep the anxious shaking of his limbs from showing.

\- - -

It was Rochert who came to fetch him, brows knit with confusion as he led Aimeric to the Prince's command tent. So, Jord hadn't lied; he hadn't yet told the men why Aimeric was being held, and had kept them from trying to talk to him. Rochert didn't try now, either, merely led him along by the arm. His wrists chafed with the sway of his bound hands, but he didn't complain. He kept his head down, eyes on the ground. That way he didn’t have to look at anyone they passed, though he felt their eyes on him long after he’d left their sight.

When they reached the command tent, Rochert pulled open the flap and walked him inside. Laurent was there, seated at the map table, which was now bare. Behind him stood the Akielon, and Aimeric’s temper awoke, making his jaw clench. _What the hell is_ he _doing here?_ He didn’t get a chance to ask, for there was one more person in the tent, and when his eyes landed on Jord he moaned in distress, jerking ineffectively against Rochert’s grip.

“What, were you hoping your lover wouldn't bear witness to this?” Laurent watched as Rochert pushed Aimeric into the chair across from him, then tied him to the chair back. When that was done, he dismissed the man with a flick of his fingers and said, “Unfortunate.”

“What do you want?” Aimeric asked, and one perfectly golden eyebrow arched.

“Well I would think that would be obvious. Jord here caught you trying to sneak away, all while clutching a letter from my uncle. Do you deny it?”

Aimeric just glared at him, stoking his anger and drawing it around him like a shield. It kept him from thinking about Jord, standing by the tent flap, watching the entrance in case he somehow broke free and tried to run.

“What I don't understand,” Laurent went on, “is why you didn't leave when you got the chance. Jord said he found you coming _back_ to the camp. Did you lose your nerve? Or did my uncle want you to get in one last farewell fuck before you left?”

Aimeric reacted violently, lurching forward in his chair, but the bonds held. He heard Jord’s sharp intake of breath, and his face burned. “You _shut your mouth_ \--”

“I'm afraid we still have plenty of talking to do.” Laurent regarded him coolly. He hadn't reacted at all. “I think we ought to get everything out in the open, don't you? I gather my uncle planted you among my men to sabotage us, and spy on me. And then you were to run back to Ravenel and tell them all about what a traitor I was. Do I have that right?”

Aimeric stubbornly remained silent, and Laurent pressed on. “And you did this for...what reason, exactly?”

He tried to steel his resolve, but he’d never been good at staying quiet. “For my family,” he growled. “For my family, and the south.”

“That's a very nice sentiment. How about the truth?”

“That _is_ the truth.”

Laurent studied his face for a long moment, then sighed.

“So you won’t confess on your own. A pity. Good thing I don't need you to, though I would have thought you'd prefer to tell it yourself.” From his jacket he withdraw a piece of parchment, and Aimeric felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. It was his last letter from the Regent. He trembled against his bonds, straining until the ropes cut into his skin. Laurent, with an almost bored ease, unfolded it.

“In my absence, Jord didn't even glance at this letter, did you know that? He waited until I returned and simply handed it over. I applaud his restraint, though I admit mine isn't so strong.” Aimeric’s heartbeat pounded in his ears as Laurent held his gaze, then glanced down at the letter, and began to read.

“‘Dearest Aimeric.’”

“ _Don't._ ” Aimeric lurched again, the ropes cutting deeper into his wrists and arms. He barely felt it; the panic was too strong, overriding even his anger. Jord was there, in the tent, he couldn’t hear this, Aimeric had to _stop this_.

“‘I hope this letter reaches you in good health,’” Laurent read, as if Aimeric hadn't spoken, as if he wasn't currently straining to launch himself across the table at the Prince. In his peripheral, he distantly registered Damen moving past him. “‘It has been so long since I had time to write, and I must apologize for that. You know I've missed you--’”

“Don’t read that.”

“‘--but my duties take precedence--’”

“Don’t, don’t it’s _personal_ \--”

“‘--and though I want to see you, I still have one task for you, and once it is done, I will come to you--’”

“ _Okay!_ ” His chest heaved, his shoulders aching from how hard he pulled against his restraints. His pulse roared in his ears. He didn’t care that he was giving in, he just needed it to end. “Stop, I'll, I’ll tell you, you _bastard_ \--”

Laurent carefully folded the letter back up and placed it on the table. “See, that was easy, wasn't it?” he said, like a mother admonishing a small, stupid child.

That was all it took to flip the switch; now control of his emotions reversed so that his rage was at the forefront, and without thinking he snapped, “So was working against a brother-fucker like you.”

The atmosphere in the tent shifted. Laurent stopped, then slowly, sinuously, like a predator, stood up from his chair.

“You will not speak of my brother,” Laurent said, and before Aimeric could even open his mouth to reply pain exploded in the side of his face. He saw stars, tasted blood, and dimly realized that Laurent had hit him. His cheek and jaw ached from the blow, his mind fuzzy as it struggled to process what had just happened.

As he rolled his head back around to look at the Prince, who was now holding a thick book, he heard the last thing he expected:

“He said he'd talk, you don't need to beat it out of him!” Jord sounded strained, and as Aimeric looked back at Jord in shock, he saw why: Damen was physically holding him back. All Aimeric could do was stare.

“You're right. He did say he would talk. Though perhaps he should stick to the topic at hand.” Laurent sat back down, set the book next to the letter. “I have a very good idea why you did it, going off of this letter. But I want to hear it from you. So tell me: how old were you, the first time you fucked my uncle?”

Aimeric’s mind hadn’t fully cleared, and now the world tilted, too quickly for him to recover. But Laurent wasn’t done. “I remember his last trip to Fortaine, what was it, six years ago? I bet you were a very pretty boy. Those are his favorite, you see. Did he tell you that you were special, stroke your hair, call you lovely?”

“Shut up.” It was barely above a whisper. Everything was wrong, this was all wrong, and still Laurent kept talking.

“I bet it was easy. A little attention, a compliment here and there, and you couldn't wait to get your mouth on his cock. I'm sure he thought you were very charming, a naive little boy from the country, willing to do whatever he wanted.”

There was a noise from behind him, but Aimeric couldn't think about that. Each word hit him like another blow, and the anger turned inward. These were all doubts he'd had, over the years, long buried and now, forcefully, violently, unearthed. Hot tears prickled the corners of his eyes. “Sh-Shut up. You don't--”

“You must have been amusing for a few nights, but then he got bored. He only extended his stay an extra week, he didn’t bring you to court, and he hasn't gone back since. Haven't you ever wondered why?”

“H-He was busy, he didn't want to leave, he told me--”

“I'm sure he told you a lot of things.” Laurent's eyes glittered, diamonds in a face carved of cold, emotionless marble. “Some of his favorites are in that very letter. That he missed you, that he wished he could write but he was so _busy_ , that if you did this for him you could be together again. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you're much too old for him now. He prefers them in their youth, and an aged thing like you would make him sick.”

“Shut up, _shut up!_ ” The tears were starting to come, and they made his voice thick. “You don't know! You don't know anything about us! _He cared about me!_ ”

It was the second time something he'd said made Laurent pause. He stared at Aimeric, whose ragged breathing was loud in the small space, as if he'd transformed into something vaguely interesting.

“‘Cared’,” Laurent murmured, his eyes never leaving Aimeric’s face. “Maybe you aren't as stupid as I thought.”

Even as his heart tore open in his chest, the defiance he was known for reared its head. “You don't know what it's like! A fourth son has no place, I'm not _you_ , fawned over every day in court, your Guard loves you, the Regent--he was the _only_ one who cared about me! You don't have to fight for him to love you, and all you do is waste it!”

“Waste it.” Laurent's words came out slowly, each one so caked with ice that, despite himself, Aimeric shivered. “You're right, I don't know what it's like. Tell me, Jord; what _is_ it like, having a middle aged man's sloppy seconds? Knowing he'd rather have the sagging ballsack of an older man in his mouth than be with you?”

“Don't, don't talk to him like that.” And just like that, the anger was gone for good, leaving nothing but a hollow ache inside. Aimeric’s body wracked with sobs he could no longer hold back, his face splotched, nose running.

“Why not? You said I didn't know what it was like. What's it _like_ , Jord. Do you think he thought of my uncle, when he was with you? That fantasizing about him was the only way he could climax?”

Aimeric's distraught plea of, “ _Stop,_ ” was loud enough that he nearly missed when Damen said, “That’s enough. Jord, get him out of here.” Aimeric sagged in the chair, not even caring how loudly, how hard he was crying. It was too much. He couldn’t stop.

“You cold-hearted son of a bitch,” he heard Jord say, and somewhere in the despair confusion stirred. Jord was still defending him.

“And then of course,” Laurent said, “There’s you.”

“No.” Damen again. Their voices began to sound like they were coming from a distance; Aimeric wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, how the Akielon expected to get away with talking to Laurent like that. “Get out.”

That was clearly not for the Prince; Aimeric felt hands, surprisingly gentle, untying his bonds, and then he was being led out of the tent. He felt numb - the emotional back-and-forth, panic to anger to despair to anger again - had taken everything out of him. All he could do was follow Jord’s guidance, eyes on the ground, tears still dripping off his nose and chin to land in the grass. He paid no attention to his surroundings, so it took him a while to realize he’d been walking far longer than he had upon being escorted to the command tent, and that Jord was taking him the long way, along the edges of the camp, rather than directly through it.

The question formed on his tongue before he could stop it. “Why are you helping me?”

Jord slowed, then stopped. His grip remained firm on Aimeric’s arm, but he didn’t speak for a long moment. The only sound between them was Aimeric’s breathing, the halting nature of it as he continued, quietly, to cry.

Eventually Jord said, “I don’t know.”

The remainder of the walk was done in silence. When they finally reached the supply tent that had been Aimeric’s residence for the past two days, Jord tied him to the same tent pole, and Aimeric’s gaze found its familiar spot on the ground. There was a clump of grass, there, with oddly symmetrical lengths. He didn’t think about how long he’d be here, staring at it, before the Prince ordered his execution.

He heard something, then, that wasn’t the sound of a tent flap opening, and looked up just enough to see that Jord was standing in front of him.

The first thing he said was, “I didn’t know. What he’d done to you.”

Aimeric blinked. “I didn't know he'd--” Jord continued, then stopped. Aimeric could see his hands, balled at his sides. “I didn't know. I'm sorry.”

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Aimeric didn't look up, though he asked, “Why?”

“Because--” Jord’s voice was rough. “Because you were just a kid. Because he's still hurting you. Because--”

“I was twelve,” Aimeric said. It came out defensive. “When he came to me. I wasn't a kid. I was twelve.”

There was silence, then a sharp _crack_ of splintering wood. Startled, Aimeric looked up fully to see Jord with his fist pressed against another tent pole. This one was now buckled, fractured but not quite broken. Jord’s breath came quickly, a muscle working in his jaw.

“The Prince is going to tell the men,” Jord said finally. He didn't drop his fist. “I'll keep them from touching you.”

Aimeric watched him, eyes wide. “Why are you defending--”

“What happened with Orlant.”

He still wasn't looking at Aimeric, his gaze trained on the splintered tent pole. Aimeric felt cold.

“I...he…”

“Was he a traitor too?” Jord asked the pole. “Or did he find out that you were.”

Aimeric flinched as if Jord had smacked him. _They're going to think Orlant is a traitor and I'm  the hero, when it's the other way around._

There was another long silence as Aimeric struggled to make himself speak. Eventually, quietly, he said, “I couldn't let him tell anyone.”

He was looking at that grass clump again. He didn't see what Jord did then, until Jord spoke again, this time from his right. Near the tent flap.

“I don't know what the Prince plans to do with you,” Jord said. “You'll remain here until he decides.”

The rustle of the flap, and Aimeric didn't have to look to know Jord was gone. In the emptiness of the tent, Aimeric’s sob was almost painfully loud, and each one that followed seemed to surround him, until he was sitting at the center of an echo chamber for his own misery.

\- - -

Aimeric fell asleep, at some point. When he woke it was to a rough shaking, and he lifted his head to see Huet standing above him, eyes cold.

“Get up,” Huet said. “We're riding out.”

He was untied from the post, and the bonds around his ankles were removed. Huet helped him into armor, just as roughly as he'd woken him; Aimeric didn't complain. It barely felt real, like he was dreaming that Huet was dragging him out of the tent, that the sounds of men packing up in the pre-dawn gloom was just his imagination. He didn't see Jord at all, as he was dragged to Huet’s horse, as he was shoved up onto its back.

He realized Loy wasn't tied to the pole. “Huet, where's my horse?”

“Quiet, traitor.” Huet hauled himself up behind Aimeric, reaching around him for the reins. Aimeric unconsciously hunched forward to decrease the contact between them.

“But--”

“I said _quiet._ ”

It was an uncomfortable, tense ride. Huet rode near the middle of the troop, locking Aimeric in the midst of the men. If he did manage to get off of the horse, he would either be easily grabbed, or, more likely, trampled to death. So he stayed where he was, shoulders curled, wondering what reason the Prince could possibly have for bringing him like this to Ravenel rather than killing him.

He stared at the horse’s neck until they reached Hellay, when suddenly the troop slowed to a halt. Aimeric looked up to see why they were stopping, and saw the distant line of men waiting for them. His heart pounded in his ears. Those were Lord Touars’ men - and the Regent’s.

He was vaguely aware that Huet was leading his horse forward, to the front of the column. Aimeric watched Laurent, the Akielon, and Jord break away, riding forward to meet the small group that had broken off from the Regent’s forces. One of them, even from this distance, he recognized as his father.

He wished he were closer, that he could hear what they were saying. He knew the gist of what his father would say, how he would accuse Laurent of treason. Would it work as well, without Aimeric’s contribution? He tried to imagine how else Guion would get the proof and nearly missed the gesture Laurent gave, the silent order that had Huet untying Aimeric’s hands and, before he could register that he was unbound, riding to the Prince’s side.

“Your son is right here,” Laurent said, once Huet had stopped beside him. Aimeric could feel his father’s eyes on him, but he could only stare at the Prince. “You see that he is unhurt. These accusations of his kidnapping, along with those of treason, are unfounded.”

Hatred - stronger than he'd ever felt - exploded in Aimeric’s chest. He knew how he must look, dirty, unkempt, his hair a mess, his eyes red. But he was overall, as Laurent said, unharmed.

“Is this true?” Guion was asking, and Aimeric grit his teeth, sitting straighter as he prepared to say everything he'd been planning to say since he'd agreed to infiltrating Laurent’s guard. And then he glanced aside and saw the Prince’s eyes on him, that same cool, calculating look, and in that moment, Aimeric understood.

Laurent’s men were not leaving that field without a fight. And if Aimeric turned now, if he gave his testimony that Laurent was a traitor, he would be painting a target on his own back. Whether or not Laurent won here, Aimeric would be singled out by his troop. All of the men knew what he had done; all of them would come for his blood. And Laurent, ever planning ahead, had situated Aimeric into tying his own noose.

And, Aimeric thought, looking back at his father, he knew Guion would do nothing to stop it.

His fists balled in his lap. “It's true,” he said, voice tight. He felt Huet’s start of surprise at his back, knew that the same sentiment would be reflected in his father’s eyes. “The Prince has not hurt me, and…”

He hesitated. He thought of Vaskian women riding in and out of camp for days. He thought of Laurent, gesturing his goodbye to the dead woman in Breteau.

“And he's not a traitor,” Aimeric said at last. He had to force the words out of himself, but when he met his father’s gaze, he channeled his anger into conviction. He would not hang himself here, no matter what Laurent thought.

“What have you done to my son?” Guion rounded on Laurent.

Laurent, who regarded him coolly. “I have done nothing to him, beyond lead him as I lead all my men.”

“You are forcing him to lie--!”

“I'm not lying,” Aimeric cut in. He kept his eyes on his father, chin raised, not allowing himself to glance aside at Jord, or the Prince.

Touars looked at Guion, who was turning red. He cleared his throat, then swallowed and said, “We will discuss this later. The charges against the Prince still stand; either he surrenders now, or we take his men. Come along, Aimeric.”

Again, a choice. Aimeric thought back to a twisted tree, and Jord’s hand at his back.

_Would you kill me?_

“No,” he said. It came out quiet, and he took a breath and repeated, “No. I'm staying with the Guard.”

One would think he had slapped his father, with the shocked look on Guion’s face. From the corner of his eye, he saw Laurent raise a hand, and felt Huet lean forward as he tightened his grip on the reins.

“You have his answer,” Laurent was saying, as Huet turned his horse around. “Now, I must ask: if I submit to your soldiers, and give myself up to my uncle’s justice, what happens to the rest of my men?”

Aimeric didn't hear the response; Huet rode away too quickly for him to catch anything. Aimeric wasn't sure he could follow even if he had heard the rest. He felt empty, the knowledge that he'd just turned his back on everything his father and the Regent had asked him to do swirling around his head. Despite his capture, he could have turned on Laurent and given his father the proof he'd promised that would have Laurent taken out for good. But he knew Laurent - to do that, at that time, would have been been a death sentence.

So now, instead, he was here, with Huet coming to a stop at the head of the line and shoving at Aimeric to dismount.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at,” Huet said roughly, as Aimeric pulled himself off the horse, “But don’t think we’ll let you trick us a second time. Rochert’s got your horse; see if he’ll be nice enough to give you a sword, too.”

Rochert did, it turned out, have a sword to give him, and Aimeric stared as it was shoved into his hands.

“Don't know why the Prince doesn't want me to kill you right now,” Rochert hissed. “But maybe your daddy will do it for me.”

Aimeric didn't flinch, though a cold weight settled in his stomach while he buckled the sword onto his hip. He had turned his back on his father in order to survive, but Rochert had a point. Just because the Prince’s men weren't going to kill him didn't mean his father’s wouldn't. And they were outnumbered--

The sound of a horn, followed by more horns, further away. Aimeric looked up, one foot in Loy’s stirrup. He saw the new line of men on the hill, saw the banners of Patras, and thought, _Of course._ Laurent wouldn't let himself be pushed into a corner without some way to level the odds. Aimeric pulled himself up onto Loy’s back, turning her toward the lines of the Prince’s men. He looked across the field, saw their opponents; and he knew, with a chill, that if he had been over there with his father, he would have been at a disadvantage.

Even so….Aimeric gripped his reins, took a deep breath, held it. Even so, his choice meant he was going to face his father on the battlefield.

He wondered how he would face his mother, after this. If he even survived at all.

\- - -

Jord returned first, from the parley. Aimeric saw him from afar, saw how he settled into the line with the other men. And then came Laurent and the Akielon, and Damen took control of the troop, took hold of the men as the new Captain, and Aimeric supposed he should have seen this coming. Damen was already in Laurent’s bed; of course he would be given the Captaincy too. Aimeric’s fingernails dug deeply into his palms, and he ignored the sting.

They had been given an hour to prepare. The Akielon began ordering the men, and Aimeric fell in line automatically, the training of those weeks in Nesson making him obedient to the commanding tone in Damen’s voice. What he didn’t expect was Laurent riding up beside him, staring him down, unaffected by the venomous glare Aimeric gave him.

“So you stayed,” he drawled. Aimeric set his jaw, and Laurent said, “Are you willing to fight for me, as your Prince? If you plan to undermine my efforts here, then I suggest you run back to your father now.”

“I’m staying,” Aimeric spat. “I don’t have a choice. If I go, you’ll make sure they kill me.”

“Oh, no. I’d make sure they brought you back.” Laurent turned his horse away, then stopped and said coolly, “You always had a choice. You chose to be my uncle’s pawn. But I am not unwilling to honor a shift in loyalty. Just know this: if you betray me again, I _will_ kill you, and I will make Jord watch me do it.”

Aimeric paled. By the time he could force his voice to work again, Laurent was already gone, joining Damen at the front of the men to address them. All Aimeric could do was remain in line, feeling the hostility of the men around him, watch them point it forward, at Lord Touars and his father’s men. Aimeric did the same, taking his rage at the Prince’s words, at his cool arrogance, and surrounding himself with it. _For the Prince!_ the men yelled, while Aimeric remained silent. He would fight Guion’s men, under the Prince’s leadership; so be it. And when it was over…

Well. If he was still alive, he’d worry about that then.

\- - -

Lord Touars didn’t give them an hour.

Barely half the allotted time had passed when Touars made his move, and Aimeric should have known, should have realized the Regent’s men would try to surprise the Prince. It was a tactic his father would have suggested, if Touars didn’t come up with it on his own. But Damen and Laurent were ready, and the men rode to meet the line of red bearing down upon them.

Aimeric had never been in a battle like this. He’d been a Guard, and then a soldier in training, and now he was facing a scenario that had been, up until now, merely a training exercise. Even though he’d known this outcome was likely when his father told him to return to Ravenel. He’d known, in the back of his mind, that Laurent would not come easily, that Guion and Touars would need a force to intimidate Laurent into surrendering. He’d known it, yet actually facing it was a different story, and he found himself retreating mentally from the battle, until his actions were borne fully of the new instincts the Prince’s training had given him.

He saw himself, as if from afar, charge through Touars’ lines, saw himself following Damen’s barked orders over the din of war. He saw himself cut down man after man, saw himself roll to his feet when a long line of bloody red opened in Loy’s side, when she stumbled and fell and threw him off. He didn’t feel anything; he only fought on. He couldn’t stop, or he would be dead, and hadn’t that been the reason he’d stayed with the Prince in the first place?

It felt like it lasted forever, and yet no time at all. Aimeric wounded and he killed, but this time, it didn’t hurt, not the way Orlant had. These were men who didn’t know him, had no reason to care about him as more than an obstacle, and he found it easy to slip into the same mindset. And then, suddenly, it was over. The banners of Ravenel were toppled, Lord Touars was dead, the men were surrendering. Aimeric pulled his sword out of a breast clothed in red, barely remembering having plunged it in in the first place. The Prince had won, just as he’d thought he would. And Aimeric was still standing, still breathing.

He wondered if his father was alive.

The cheers of the men pounded distantly against his ears, and Aimeric was swept up in the tide of them, men exhausted and bloodied but _victorious._ No one seemed to notice who it was that they were pulling along, and Aimeric let himself be caught up in it, his mind still fuzzy, his body moving of its own accord.

He found himself brought to a yellow tent, led to a cot and gently pushed down. It occurred to him that he was bleeding only when he felt careful hands probing his shoulder - the same one, he thought dimly, that Orlant had run through. The cut didn’t seem to be as deep, this time, and after a quick bandaging the physician left him alone, moving on to more important patients. They were almost all Veretian, and Aimeric saw the tell-tale red of the Regent on many of them.

He was asked to leave, soon after that, to free up the cot for someone who needed it more. He wandered out of the tent, to the edges of the camp, watching men scurry past as they prepared for the next step in the Prince’s plan.

None of the Prince’s men approached him. Aimeric had to wander past small knots of men to overhear what was happening, what their next move was. They were to ride to Ravenel wearing the clothes of Touars’ forces, and trick those remaining at Ravenel into believing they were friendly. And why could they do this? Because, he heard, Councillor Guion had lived, and had not fled to Ravenel to warn them. Because Councillor Guion had returned to Fortaine, after his son left him to fight with the Prince.

Anger began to trickle through the numbness in Aimeric’s body. His father had run, like a dog with its tail between its legs. He likely didn’t even know if his son had survived; but what did it matter, when it came to a fourth son?

When Regent-red armor was shoved at him, Aimeric changed with vigor. It was slightly too large and made him feel like a child playing dress-up, but it would do well enough to fool the men guarding Ravenel. He was given a horse; Loy was lost out on the battlefield, somewhere, likely dead. He felt a pang of sorrow, despite knowing he shouldn’t have gotten so attached. She’d been a good horse, and done her job well, and he should be grateful for that.

When the men lined up to ride out, Huet appeared beside him, eyes hard and hands full of rope.

“Prince doesn’t want you running ahead and ruining the surprise,” he said gruffly, as he tied Aimeric’s hands. “So I’m going to make sure you stay put.”

Aimeric scowled, flexing his wrists against his bonds. Apparently it didn’t matter that he’d just killed for the Prince, and went against his father; he was still being treated like a prisoner.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Like you weren’t going to get him tried for treason?” Huet snorted, unkindly. “Yeah, forgive me if I don’t believe that.”

They rode hard to Ravenel, Aimeric grasping at his horse’s mane to hold himself steady. Huet led the gelding the whole way, grip firm on the reins, keeping them out of Aimeric’s grasp. If the men at Ravenel weren’t atop a high wall, it would certainly look suspicious, a Regent’s man leading another’s horse. With the distance and the armor, however, they wouldn’t look closely enough to tell. Aimeric could only be grateful that he wasn’t gagged like Enguerran. Not that he would have called out regardless; he had meant it, when he said he wasn’t planning on raising an alarm. He knew it would only end with an arrow in his throat.

The siege of Ravenel was nearly bloodless. They were let in through the gates, their deception successful. He saw, from where he sat, when the Akielon dispatched men to the take the guards stationed inside the walls. He watched as Laurent rode up onto the steps of the dais, as he addressed the fort and his taking of it. Then, as the men dispersed, as they moved to clear the living areas of Touars’ trusted advisor and private guards, Aimeric was led by Huet further into the fort, to one of the private residences, and there he was untied, and left alone.

It had been unused for a while, before now. Aimeric knew the difference between a servant-cleaned room that had been occupied and one that had been left standing empty, yet kept neat. It reminded him of the rooms of Fortaine, of his own rooms growing up, and Aimeric knew that he did not belong here, with his dirty, blood-stained armor, his messy hair and grimy face.

There would be guards at his door. The Prince was thorough. A servant arrived sometime later, bearing water and cloth, and Aimeric was at least able to bathe. He was careful as he washed around the wound in his shoulder, as he scrubbed his hair, wiped the dirt and blood from his skin. When he was done, dressed in an undershirt and pants, he felt - well.

He felt a lot of things, not the least of which was grim anticipation. Laurent was keeping him prisoner for a reason, and he was sure the time would soon come when he was on the receiving end of another interrogation.

What he didn’t expect, as the day turned to night and the sounds of celebration carried up from the courtyard, was that his first visitor wouldn’t be the Prince at all.

When the door to his prison finally opened, Aimeric turned, lifting his chin and balling his fists at his sides, ready to face the Prince’s questioning. His arrogant posture deflated, however, when he saw it was not Laurent, but Jord, both hands pressed flat against the door as he closed it, his entire body taut with tension. Aimeric blinked.

“Jord..?”

“Did you know,” Jord said. His voice was thick, and raw. He wasn’t looking at Aimeric. “Did you know about the slave.”

“Did I--what?” Aimeric took a step backward, his legs hitting the end of the bed. He dropped onto it, bewilderment clear on his face. “That he was fucking the Prince?”

“No, not that. Did you know--did you know who he was?” Jord looked up then, fixing Aimeric with a look more intense than any he’d seen out of him. Aimeric could only stare back, eyes wide.

“Who he was….? He’s Akielon, and a slave. What else is there to know?”

Jord watched him for a long moment, until Aimeric was fisting his hands in his lap, fighting not to fidget beneath those eyes. Eventually, Jord let out a long breath, and pushed himself away from the door. Though he now stood on his own, the tension remained, and Aimeric wondered what could have happened with the Akielon to throw him so off balance.

“Okay. I--believe you.” Jord ran a hand over his hair, gaze dropping to the floor. “I just needed to know for sure.”

Aimeric stood up, took a step forward. “Why? What’s happened?”

“Nothing.” Jord was turning away already. He almost sounded guilty, as if he’d inadvertently given something away. “It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t, but Aimeric knew he wasn’t going to get answers now, so as Jord put his hand back on the doorknob Aimeric asked, “Why is the Prince keeping me here?”

Jord paused. Slowly, without looking up, he said, “He needs to know what you know. He’ll treat you fairly. He’s treating all the prisoners fairly. And I have good men guarding the door, so that…”

He trailed off, and Aimeric didn’t need to hear it to know what he meant. He remembered how Jord had said he’d keep the men from touching him, when Aimeric was tied up in the tent at Breteau. He felt a wave of nausea roll through him, had to swallow hard to keep it at bay. The men were drunk, that much was obvious from the sounds filtering up to his prison. It wouldn’t be difficult for them to come up with a _creative_ punishment for Aimeric while he was locked in a room and defenseless.

“Jord,” he said, and it came out broken, so that he had to swallow again, try it a second time. “Jord, I’m...I’m sorry.”

Jord remained still, his hand gripping the doorknob. He did look up, then, meeting Aimeric’s eyes. The regret was so openly obvious on his face that Aimeric felt it like a physical blow, a hard punch to the chest that left him breathless.

“Yeah,” Jord said, as he opened the door. “I’m sorry too.”

\- - -

The Prince didn’t come that night, and neither did anyone else. Aimeric heard a commotion outside of his door a few times, and he tensed, waiting for men to burst in and ravish him. But whoever it was, they were turned back every time, and he was left alone. The only ‘visitor’ he had was a servant bringing him a simple meal and retiring just as quickly. Aimeric stared at the food, found himself unappealed by it, and left it there.

Aimeric thought of escaping, and each idea that came to mind was less workable than the last. He was in a fort full of men under Laurent’s control, and he would be easily overpowered if he tried anything. He could break the window, climb down the tower; except he knew that would be futile, too. More than likely he would fall, his body breaking on the stones below.

He looked out the window at the ground, so very far beneath him. Then he looked at the glass, thought how easy it would be to break, how a shard could be used as a knife, if he wanted it to be.

How he could take himself out, before Laurent got the chance.

He mulled it over in his mind for a long time. It would be easy; the guards weren’t going to be coming in, and with the last servant to provide him dinner, it was unlikely any others would appear until morning. He had hours in which he could create his own death, take himself out of Laurent’s power, out of whatever plans the Prince had for him.

Then, as quickly as the idea had come to him, he dismissed it. No, he hadn’t turned his back on his father, hadn’t fought against the Regent’s men, just to die now. His hands shook as he turned away from the window. He stalked across the room to the desk, neatly placed for an aristocrat’s writings, and, with one harsh movement, swept everything that sat atop it onto the floor. If the guards heard anything, they didn’t check to see what the noise had been, and Aimeric stood, hands gripping the back of the desk’s chair so tightly his knuckles were white, breathing heavily.

Eventually, he slept. Even the frantic whirring of his mind as it tried to find a way out of his circumstances couldn’t completely overrule the exhaustion of his body, after the battle and his imprisonment. While the rooms Laurent had given him were nothing but a beautiful cage, he still had a bed, and his muscles melted into the soft mattress when he lay down upon it. It did not take very long at all for his thoughts to follow suit, and Aimeric was carried into darkness, his troubles leaving him, for now.

\- - -

The Prince came mid-morning. Something had happened, after Aimeric awoke; he could tell, because he heard men shouting, alarms being raised at a potential threat. He could see, from his window, the appearance of the Regent’s men, heard the horns announcing their arrival. He didn’t know what was said. He didn’t need to; it was obvious in the way Laurent held himself on horseback, opposing the twenty-five men facing him alone. Where Touars’ forces had failed, these men were here to try again.

He didn’t need to hear what they said, because he could see, even from this distance, when one of the soldiers pulled a head from a bag. He could see the brown hair, the young features, warped now after decaying in the heat. He didn’t need to see clearly to know who that head belonged to, and feel his world tilt beneath him, bile rising in his throat. He remembered the Regent’s pet, how jealous he’d been of the boy who currently held his love’s affections. And now that boy was dead, merely a head in a bag, and Aimeric heard Laurent’s words in his head. _An aged thing like you would make him sick._

When Laurent arrived, Aimeric was waiting for him. He heard the Prince say, “Don’t let him follow me,” to the guards, saw a glimpse of the Akielon being held back before the door closed. Aimeric stood, back straight, hands clasped behind his back, and glared.

There was something off about the Prince. Aimeric realized, slowly, that he wasn’t as emotionless as usual, wasn’t as cut off as he always appeared. Aimeric wondered what it was that had unsettled him; the appearance of the Regent’s men, or Nicaise’s head, held up for all to see.

“You,” Laurent said, and his voice, unlike his demeanor, remained tightly controlled. “Are going to tell me everything you know of my uncle’s plans.”

“Why should I?” Aimeric snapped. “I fought for you at Hellay, and you locked me in here. What reason do I have to help you at all?”

Laurent cocked his head, slightly, and stepped forward. The atmosphere of the room changed, and while Aimeric remained in place, he felt as if he were being stalked by a predator. A panther, as Rochert had said, what felt like months ago. Laurent came close, leaving only a foot between them.

 

“You would have slit my throat at the first opportunity,” he said quietly. “Why should I allow you any leniency? Because you fucked my Captain, made him vouch for you? I’m not so naive.”

Aimeric ground his teeth. “I have nothing to tell that you haven’t already guessed. I only know what I was told to do.”

Laurent studied his face, and Aimeric could almost see how he pulled himself together, drew himself back to the cold facade he always presented. Eventually, the Prince said, “I see. Then you are no longer useful to me.”

He turned to leave. Aimeric felt the overwhelming urge to punch him, to drive his fist into the back of that golden head, but he held back. It was a ploy; they were always ploys, when it came to the Prince. He’d learned that, by now.

And so he held back, and snarled, “What do you want from me?”

Laurent stopped, partway to the door. He turned, let his gaze drag along Aimeric’s body, and Aimeric felt himself flush. Then, the Prince said, “You stayed with my men, and fought for me. It seems like you’re seeking another chance. But do you truly mean it?”

Aimeric glared, and said nothing. Laurent watched him carefully. Any trace of a crack in his expression was gone, the cold mask once more in place.

Eventually, Laurent spoke. “If you truly want to redeem yourself,” he said, catching Aimeric's eye, holding his gaze, “You’ll win me Fortaine.”


	5. A Series of Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being in his childhood home is not the pleasant experience he'd like it to be, and Aimeric finally faces a hard truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're starting to get into uncharted territory here, as we enter book three's events, when Aimeric is supposed to be dead. exciting!! 
> 
> I do have to say I'm probably going to end up slowing down on the update schedule; I'm not sure how I've kept trucking thus far, but the end of my semester is approaching, which means a ton of schoolwork. alas.
> 
> still, thank you all for the kind comments and kudos!! I already needed this story for my own heart but I'm glad so many are enjoying it.
> 
> today's theme: bad dad figures are bad actually

The Regent, he learned, had challenged the Prince to come to Charcy. But that wasn't what Laurent wanted to know, and as he told what he knew of his home fort, Aimeric watched those steely blue eyes, wondering what the Prince could possibly be planning now.

What he wanted, it seemed, was to take Fortaine the same way he'd taken Ravenel: quickly, quietly, and as bloodless as possible. Aimeric didn't think that would work, not with his father holed out there, no matter how much he described the layout of the fort, the locations of the servants’ entrances, the patrol schedules as he remembered them. Yet Laurent listened carefully to it all, and when Aimeric was done, he rose and said,

“This has been very enlightening. Perhaps you will be useful after all.”

Aimeric scowled after him as Laurent made his way to the door. It turned to shock when Laurent stopped, looked back at him and asked, “Well, are you coming?”

“You're letting me out?” Aimeric stood from where he’d been sitting on the bed, body tense, eyes wary.

“If we're going to use your knowledge to take Fortaine, it would be a bit stupid to leave you behind, don't you think?” Laurent opened the door, and said, “Plus you need to prepare to leave. Your armor should be stored with the rest.”

And then Laurent left, stopping only to speak with the guards outside the door. Aimeric waited, his mind still processing this sudden freedom, and heard the confusion in the guards’ voices, the addition of the Akielon’s. Then came footsteps, and as Aimeric approached the open door, he watched the guards, Laurent, and Damen walking down the corridor, away from him. 

He was truly being set free, though only, Aimeric knew, in a sense. He was still bound by his decision to Laurent’s service, even if, unlike the rest of the men, he was not bound by loyalty. Instead, knowing he had no choice, he was going to help the Prince quietly take Fortaine, and convince his father to defect to Laurent. He had told Laurent he could do it, that he could turn his father’s ear, convince Guion that it would be smarter to work under the Prince than the Regent. He could only hope, as he walked through the halls of Ravenel, in the day between their departure and their arrival at Fortaine, that it would become the truth.

His mind wandered as he prepared to ride out, donning his armor, finding his new horse. His things had been stored with those of Touars’ men - now Laurent’s men - rather than the remaining Prince’s Guard, which, while likely for the best, still felt surreal. It did make it easy to think ahead to Fortaine, when he wasn’t surrounded by men who would prefer to see him dead. Touars’ forces had only recently been loyal to the Regent themselves; Aimeric’s actions meant nothing to them. 

So, as he slid into his armor, saddled up his horse - a sturdy brown gelding, which stood patiently while he worked - he thought instead of his father, who would be behind the main force at Charcy. His father, and his older brothers. He thought about seeing his mother again; as Guion had not died on the battlefield at Hellay, he hoped she wouldn’t be angry with him. She had always seemed to not hold the Regent in the same esteem as his father, and when he was younger, it had confused him. Now, he thought he was beginning to understand it, and  _ that _ was even more confusing.

He was used to longing for the Regent’s attention to fall on him once more, remembered the touch to his cheek in Arles. Yet, here he was, actively working with the Prince against the Regent’s plans.

Well. In the absence of positive attention, rebellion had always been his standby.

While his armor had been stored with that of the Ravenel men, he would be traveling with the remainder of the Prince’s Guard. The troop bristled as he joined them, though he noticed the most familiar of faces, the men he’d been closest to, weren’t among those around him. There was no Huet, no Lazar; they must have been staying behind with Damen, whom Laurent was putting in charge of the fort. The slave must have been very good at fucking, for all the privileges Laurent gave him.

A traitorous part of him remembered how well Damen had led the men at Hellay, how his rise to the Captaincy had kept them alive, and he frowned at nothing.

No Rochert, either. He had, Aimeric learned, been lost at Hellay. The pang of that knowledge settled in his chest, a squeeze of his heart. He had liked Rochert. He had liked most of them.

Then, the most painful absence of all: Jord was not among the Prince’s troop. He would be remaining with Damen, to defend Ravenel. Aimeric felt his absence just as strongly as he had during that ambush in the mountains near Nesson. Worse, perhaps, as this time, there would be no celebratory sharing of wine for them after Charcy, nor would he have the pleasure of dozing off in Jord’s arms, no matter the outcome.

Aimeric allowed himself a moment for that knowledge to truly sink in. His hands shook on the reins of his horse, his head bowed, body tense. If he were alone, he may have let his control break, let the hot tears building behind his eyes flow freely down his cheeks. Here in the midst of the Prince’s men, he took a deep breath, and forced it down, steadying himself for the ride ahead.

In two day’s time, if everything went according to plan, they would have Fortaine and be riding to support Damen at Charcy. And after that...he didn’t know. His future loomed, uncertain, beyond Charcy. He had no plan, no idea what would happen to him after the next three days. As he sat straight in his saddle and looked up at Laurent, sitting tall on his horse on the steps of Ravenel’s dais, Aimeric had a feeling the Prince was already imagining all of the different paths his own future could take, and how to shift them to his favor.

The order came, then, and the men, as one, turned their horses toward the opened gates of Ravenel. Laurent moved to the front of the troop, and led them out of the fort, toward Fortaine.

\- - -

Things did not go according to plan.

The ambush came in the night, scattering the men and their horses. Those on patrol must have been killed, dispatched quickly and silently, so that they couldn’t raise an alarm. The camp fell into chaos as they were overrun, surprised in their beds, and Aimeric didn’t see how many fell to enemy swords. He thought he saw the Prince, at one point, carried over the back of a man dressed in red, and then something hard hit him in the back of the head and all he saw was darkness.

When he awoke, he was lying on something soft. His vision cleared and he saw a ceiling above him, a ceiling decorated with beautiful swirling patterns of delicate gold, and he wondered if he had died, for it was the same ceiling he had awoken to every morning until he left Fortaine a little over six months ago.

He sat up, and his head throbbed in protest, making him grimace. A quick survey of his body found that he wasn’t injured beyond the tenderness at the base of his skull, and a quick, careful brush of his fingers found no blood, dried or otherwise. His armor was gone; he was dressed only in his undershirt and pants. It felt like every beat of his heart only increased the pain in his skull, which meant he couldn’t be dead. If he were dead, it wouldn’t hurt this much.

He looked around the room, and homesickness hit him like a blow. It was his room, exactly as he’d left it, kept clean and neat by the servants. The only difference came when his gaze swept to his desk, and he startled badly, eyes wide as he stared at his father, who had been sitting there in silence as he roused, watching him.

“So. You’re awake,” Guion said, and Aimeric felt his shoulders instinctively begin to curl. It was a tone he recognized from childhood, when he’d gotten himself into a particularly rough spot of trouble, and his father was forced to clean it up.

“Father--” Aimeric began, and Guion cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.

“I don’t know what possessed you at Hellay.” Guion’s back was straight, expression hard, and his gaze never left Aimeric’s face. “I don’t know what thrall the Prince has put you under. What I do know is that you are my son, and I raised you better than this. The Regent tasked you with something important; he didn’t seek you out so you could fail him.”

_ You barely raised me at all. _ The words were on the tip of Aimeric’s tongue, and he swallowed them. “Father,” he tried, ignoring the ache in his head, how it scattered his thoughts, “I, things changed, I don’t think the Regent is who he wants us to believe he is--”

“More lies from the venomous tongue of his nephew.” Guion stood, then, came to the edge of the bed. His expression softened, somewhat, and he rested a hand on Aimeric’s shoulder. “You mustn’t listen to him, Aimeric. The Prince may have swayed the filth he calls his guard, but you know the truth. He is a traitor, under the sway of an Akielon, working with Vaskians to incite conflict along the border. If we are to serve the Veretian people, he must be tried and shown for what he truly is.”

Aimeric leaned into that touch. His father had never looked at him like that, never spoken to him with such softness. And as this thought surfaced, he realized the truth in it. The boyish desire to please his father was smothered by something stronger, something more recent and familiar: his anger.

His father had never been like this with him before. The insincerity of it rang in his ears. Aimeric looked up, meeting Guion’s eyes.

“What reason would the Prince have to incite conflict along the border, when he had refused to travel at all until recently.” He held himself steady, even as Guion’s expression began to harden. “Is he a frivolous, worthless brat, or is he a devious traitor working to bring about Vere’s downfall? Pick one, Father.”

Guion’s grip tightened on his shoulder, almost to the point of pain. Aimeric weathered it without comment. He was beginning to see the truth, now, the cracks in his father’s lies. He knew he shouldn’t antagonize, knew Laurent had told him to be more careful with his words to turn his father’s loyalties, but he couldn’t help it, after everything he’d done--

Then his father sighed, a heavy, weary sound. He looked old, and tired, and all of Aimeric’s anger fell away.

“I don’t know what he’s done to you,” Guion said, quietly. “Perhaps it’s my fault. I knew how skilled he was in manipulating the men around him. I should have been more careful, and now…” Another sigh. The grip on Aimeric’s shoulder was lighter, and Guion’s eyes were sad. “I know you can do the right thing, in the end. Please, Aimeric. For me.” 

Aimeric swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll,” he said, and it cracked on his lips, and he tried again. “I’ll do my best.” 

Disappointment tainted Guion’s features, but he nodded, and straightened, pulling his hand away. “We can still make this right,” he said. “Remember that.”

When he left, Aimeric sagged, staring at his hands. His head hurt. His heart hurt. He didn’t know what to think.  _ Please, Aimeric. For me.  _ Something about those words made him nauseous, and yet something about them made him yearn, for the softness in his father’s eyes, the gentle touch to his shoulder. He didn’t know what to think. He couldn’t think.

Carefully, Aimeric lay back down upon his bed, and for a while, he stared at the ceiling, tracing the swirling patterns with his eyes, and didn’t think.

\- - -

He wasn’t, in actuality, left alone for very long. The next time his door opened, Aimeric lifted his head just enough to see who it was, wincing at the pain that lanced behind his eyes. He assumed it would be a servant, sent to care for his bruises, but when he sat up further he saw that, instead, it was his mother.

She was carrying a bucket and a cloth. As Aimeric watched, she set the bucket down beside his bed, then dragged the desk chair beside it, bringing her into arm’s reach. He stared as she dipped the cloth into the bucket, wrung out the extra water it had collected, and reached for him.

The water was cold, shockingly so, and Aimeric flinched as the cloth was pressed against his curls, against the soreness at the back of his head. Her free arm curled around his back, holding him upright as she gingerly held the cloth to his hair. Despite caring for him like this, Loyse had yet to say a word, though her brow was creased with worry, lips turned down in a frown. Aimeric found himself equally speechless; the silence stretched between them for a long moment until Loyse drew back, eyes searching her son’s face.

“How badly did they hurt you?” she asked, and Aimeric knew, in that instant, that the concern in her voice, the care in her touch, was genuine. Unlikes with his father, Aimeric had felt this before, in brief stolen moments as a child.

“It’s not that bad.” Aimeric tried to grin. “Just a headache.” 

“Oh, Aimeric.” Loyse pulled him close, bringing his face to rest against her shoulder as she kept the cool cloth pressed to his bruise. It was a hug and it wasn’t; he still found his arms coming up around her, nose burying itself into the velvet of her jacket, and when he did the arm around him curled tighter.

“You know,” she said softly, “I’m proud of you.”

Aimeric pulled back, and the trust of the moment, the tenderness, was gone. His eyes narrowed as he studied her face, looking for the lie. “Why would you be proud of me? I betrayed Father.”

“No.” The firmness of her voice was as surprising as her words. Loyse pulled the cloth away, carefully dropped it into the bucket before sliding herself off of the chair and onto the bed proper. “He betrayed you. When he told me of the Regent’s plan, I was so angry, I--I wanted to write you, but I wasn’t sure you would listen to me.”

There had been hints, over the years, that his mother was not fond of the Regent. Aimeric blinked, owlishly, at this brazen proof of it.

“Why would you be angry?”

“Because the Regent was using you, just as he’d used you before. When you were young.” Loyse reached out, carefully brushed a few curls behind his ear. “I remember when the Regent came, all those years ago. I remember the way he looked at you, what your father allowed him to do. I should have stopped it, back then. I should have--” She dropped her hand, looking away. “I failed you, then. I’m sorry.”

Under the cold touch of cloth, Aimeric’s headache had waned, leaving him more clear-minded than when he’d awoken. Hearing this, however, had his thoughts flying apart all over again, and he found it difficult to come up with anything coherent.

“But he cared about me,” he heard himself blurting. “He loved me. That’s why he came to me. Isn’t it?”

The pain that crossed his mother’s face when he said that was more convincing than any of the vile things the Prince had spewed at him, and Aimeric felt himself breaking beneath it, the truth a dagger through the heart as Loyse said, “Oh, my love. That isn’t why.”

Aimeric leaned forward, unthinking, once more burying his nose in her shoulder. The first sob was quiet, a soft shake of his body, a gentle burst of air against the cloth around her neck. The next wasn’t, and as he began to cry in earnest, her arms came around him and she held him, the way she had so rarely when he was young, when she’d had the time to find him. And just as she had then, she gently rocked him until his tears slowed and he was left pressed against her, breathing ragged as he tried to bring it under control.

He felt fingers running through his hair, soothing strokes that helped calm him. After a time, he drew away, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“Here.” Loyse bent down, retrieved the cloth, wrung it. “It may not dry your eyes,” she said, as she pressed it to his cheeks, over his closed eyelids, “But it will take away the redness.”

“Thank you.” Aimeric sat still as she worked, and quietly added, “Thank you, Mama.”

Her hand stilled, and he felt foolish. He hadn’t called her that since he was a child, which was also the last time he’d cried into her breast. He shouldn’t be acting so juvenile; he was a man, and men didn’t cling to their mothers or use the nicknames of toddlers.

Except Loyse removed the cloth and touched his cheek, wiping away the remaining tracks tears had left on his skin with her thumb.

“I failed you then,” she repeated, holding his gaze. “And I am going to make amends for that. There is still something I can do, I think, to fix this.”

Aimeric’s brow furrowed, his confusion clear on his face, but Loyse didn’t elaborate. She merely looked at him a moment longer, her thumb making gentle strokes along the planes of his cheek, before she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Your father is keeping the Prince in the lower dungeon,” she whispered, as she drew away. “He hasn’t told his men. Go now; Govart is with him, and I don’t know how long his Highness will last alone with that man.”

\- - -

Aimeric had expected some resistance as he made his way to the lower cells of the fort, and found none. It seemed his father hadn’t mentioned his betrayal; he was treated as he had been before he went north, as a son of the lord, who had access to whichever part of the fort he pleased. No one stopped him as he wound his way to the lower portions of Fortaine. He still kept his chin high, just in case, walking the halls as if he belonged there, his authority clear in the way he held himself.

He was the only son in the fort, currently, and his father was preoccupied. So he let himself fall into an old fantasy, where he was the lord of Fortaine. It lent to the confident way he walked, and no matter how deep he went, no one questioned him.

When he drew close to the cells where his mother had said the Prince would be, he heard voices, and slowed his approach. The other cells he passed were empty, and quiet. He only heard three voices, though the words were not clear: Laurent, sounding haughty as ever; Govart's roughness; and, of course, his father. Then there was a scream - Laurent, that was Laurent - and Aimeric found himself running, abandoning his stealth.

He rounded the corner to the sound of a cell door closing. There, before him, the Prince sat on a bench, dirty and ragged, his head lolling. Clutching the bars of the cell was his father. Govart was an unmoving lump behind him, lying on the filth that was the cell's floor.

The Prince laughed. Aimeric barely heard it, over the rattling of metal as his father shook the cell door, which refused to open. He'd yet to notice Aimeric’s presence - until Aimeric stepped in front of the Prince, frowned at his bloodied, rumpled state.

“You're hurt,” he said, surprising them both. Laurent’s head rolled on his neck, and he peered up at Aimeric with one eye, the other hidden by grimy, sweat-stained hair.

“You're astute,” the Prince said.

“Aimeric!” His father rattled the bars once more, and Aimeric looked up. He saw desperation, and fear. “Aimeric, let me out, the Prince--”

“Defended himself,” Aimeric interrupted, and watched the way Guion’s face reddened.

Then Laurent said, “I tried letting you out,” and, with an instinct he didn't know he'd developed, Aimeric grew quiet, and let Laurent take control.

“I'll give you anything you want,” Guion said. He'd stopped looking at Aimeric, who was used to that.

“I tried that too,” Laurent said.

And so it continued, while Aimeric observed. While Aimeric listened to how the Prince was baited with his failure to honor the rendezvous with Damen, and how Laurent accepted that truth. Listened to how the Prince would claim Guion helped him escape, with the aid of his youngest son; and Aimeric didn't even flinch. Eventually, Laurent stood, and approached the cell. He said, “No one knows I’m here. Which means no one knows you’re here. No one’s going to look, no one’s going to come, no one’s going to find you.

“No one's going to help your family when my uncle comes, all smiles.”

Guion’s eyes found Aimeric’s. “You'll stop this,” he said. “You won't let the Regent hurt me. Or your mother.”

“You're right, I won't.” Aimeric stepped up beside Laurent, and to his father's relieved expression he clarified, “I won't let him hurt either of you, because you will join the Prince.”

Just as it had in his chambers, Guion’s expression hardened. “And why should I?”

Aimeric felt the Prince’s presence beside him, how he quietly favored his left side, his breathing uneven. He wasn't speaking, letting Aimeric take the reins, and the rush of gratitude was so foreign, so unexpected, he almost didn't realize what it was.

Aimeric said, “Because his Highness is correct. No one knows you're down here. No one will come looking. And Govart will want something to take out his frustration on, when he wakes. It would be kind of you to provide that service.”

Dark satisfaction blossomed within him as his father paled. Govart still lay on the floor, bleeding from one ear, and it was impossible to tell when he'd regain consciousness - or what he would do when he did. Guion looked away from his son, then, turning his attention to the Prince, and asked, “What do you want from me?”

\- - -

Without bloodshed, without a fight, the Prince of Vere took the fort of Fortaine.

Aimeric watched as the survivors of the Guard came through the open gates. Their number had been reduced by quite a bit, and as Aimeric held his mount beside the Prince at the dias steps, he noticed how exhausted they were, how they didn't have the energy to be angry with him.

He hated that, in a way. Hated how they looked at him as they entered, how their faces were free of betrayal when he looked back. He stood with their Prince, finally and fully, and they saw it and accepted it. And he hated that, in their tired acceptance, he knew he was now Laurent’s man through and through.

Rather than taking up space in the fort, Laurent had the troop begin making camp just outside it. Aimeric had only just set up his own tent when a guardsman came to him, told him the Prince wanted to see him. Aimeric did not protest; he only wondered, as he followed, what Laurent had to say.

His escort opened the tent flap for him, and after Aimeric stepped inside, left. He was alone with the Prince, as he'd been in Ravenel. The Prince whose wounds were hidden beneath his tightly laced clothing, whose eyes were as sharp as ever when they looked Aimeric over.

Aimeric stood stiffly, his hands clasped behind his back. “Was there something you needed, your Highness?”

The Prince stepped forward, and if Aimeric hadn’t seen him not long ago dirty and broken in Fortaine’s cells, he wouldn’t know that the man was injured. He still moved with careful control, giving nothing away, least of all his reason for having Aimeric brought here.

“Tell me,” Laurent said finally, stopping in front of Aimeric. “How did it feel, having power over your father? Holding his life in your hands, knowing that what happened to him depended entirely on your mercy?”

It was not what Aimeric had expected, though in truth, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. He didn’t say anything at first; the answer, in a way that surprised him, came quickly to his mind. He let it linger there, testing the edges of it on his tongue, before he spoke.

“It felt good.”

And it was true. It had felt good, his first victory in a long and ruthless war for his father’s attention and respect. For once, he had been in control, and he’d liked it.

Laurent watched him, then said, “So you understand, then, why I must defeat my uncle.”

Aimeric opened his mouth, found the words weren’t there, and closed it. Reality shifted; he did, he realized, understand. He looked at Laurent with fresh eyes, now seeing how his stance reflected his injuries, and saw a man bent under the grip of a loved one’s ambitions. He wondered, distantly, how he would act in that same situation, if his father were trying to undermine him and brand him a traitor.

As he stood there, Laurent turned away. “That was all,” he said, dismissively. “I have much to do, I don’t need you standing there and gawking while I do it.”

Just like that, the moment was over. Aimeric scowled, a note of petulance in the way he said, “Yes, your Highness,” because he was still himself even after all of that. He left the command tent, mind buzzing with what had just happened. He’d never thought he’d have anything in common with the Prince, had never wanted to, and felt odd at the discovery that they did, in fact, understand each other in this specific way.

Aimeric didn’t want to think about it. He busied himself with the duties of a troop making camp, tried to distract himself with the manual labor he’d grown accustomed to since leaving Arles. Which meant he was there, in the thick of it, when the Akielon slave returned from Charcy.

And found out who Damen really was.

\- - -

With the Akielon’s return came the return of the Prince’s men that had gone with him; though almost half of the troop Damen led at Charcy had died (Akielon troops, Aimeric saw, as they began to raise their own city of tents), most of the Prince’s Guard had survived it. He caught a glimpse of Jord, battle-weary and dirty, and his heart squeezed painfully in his chest. He didn’t approach, instead drifting toward the knot of men forming around Huet and Lazar, who were relaying the events of Charcy and how they had been led to victory.

By Damianos, Prince of Akielos.  _ Prince-killer. _

Aimeric, standing toward the back of the group, found his eyes focusing on nothing, the exaggerated retelling of Huet’s fading to a wordless buzz in the background. A hundred little things resurfaced in his mind - Damen understanding a nobleman’s strategical map when even Jord didn’t; the way he carried himself; the pride, the fight in him at Arles; sitting up at night with the Prince talking tactics. How he was clearly not trained in the way of slaves in Akielos, and how, it was said, Kastor himself had had Damen punished this way.

He remembered a morning in Acquitart, Damen coming from Laurent’s rooms looking like he had been fucking all night. Aimeric felt sick; Damen had known all along who his master was, and let Laurent spread for him anyway.

The burn of hatred was unsurprising. It was the fact that he felt it on Laurent’s behalf that shocked him, despite their conversation earlier.

And Damianos was currently in their camp at this moment, speaking with the Prince. He had, it was said, ignored the heralds, ignored all protocol, and simply stomped his way into the command tent.  _ He would _ , Aimeric thought, venomously.  _ He’d always been a brute. _

When he finally pulled himself out of his own thoughts, Aimeric found the men dispersing. Huet’s tale was over, and they were off to spread it, until the whole camp knew of who the Prince’s slave truly was. Huet himself was wandering away, but when Aimeric glanced at his companion, he startled. Lazar was still standing there, and despite evening falling around them, it was clear to see Lazar was looking right at him.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it.” Lazar came forward, stopping beside Aimeric and looking out at the rest of the camp. He, too, was covered in the grime of battle, dried blood still caked to his armor in some places. He rolled his neck, and sighed. “To think we’d been following the rightful King of Akielos this whole time.”

“Why are you talking to me?” Aimeric asked. Lazar paused. He didn’t look offended at Aimeric’s bluntness, more thoughtful.

“You really had me fooled, you know,” he said at last. Aimeric lifted his chin, set his jaw. Lazar didn’t seem to notice. “You were good at pretending you loved the Prince.” 

“It wouldn’t cause rifts if it didn’t seem believable, why I was fighting so much.”

“You’re right, it wouldn’t have.” Lazar shifted his stance, and Aimeric noticed he was favoring his right leg. “Back when we first rode out of Arles, I didn’t like the Prince either. I thought he was a spoiled brat living off his uncle’s kindness. And then he took out Govart.” Lazar’s eyes went distant. “I didn’t think he could fight like that. I started looking at him differently, after.”

“He did it again, you know.” Aimeric thought of the news Fortaine’s physicians had provided, how Govart was currently sitting in a bed, being a thoroughly uncooperative patient. “This morning. I’m not sure he’s going to recover.”

“Huh. Good. Govart was a mean bastard.”

He went quiet then, a smirk tugging at his lips, until Aimeric said, “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Ah. Right.” The smirk faded, and Lazar looked the most serious Aimeric had ever seen him. “I was the Regent’s man, once. Sure, it was for money, and not my family, but. I came around, didn’t I? Touars’ men came around;  hell, the Prince even got Ambassador Guion to come around.” He chuckled, then, and his eyes glittered as they returned to Aimeric’s. “Partially your doing, I gather.”

Aimeric flushed. “Maybe.”

“Well, either way. You were sent to betray him, and you didn’t. And now you’re helping him. I was sent to betray him, and I didn’t. And now I’m helping him. So I’m talking to you because I get it, and honestly I don’t see the point in infighting anymore.” He shrugged, then, his manner easy. “You’re with the Prince now. Though I will have to kill you, if you turn traitor again.”

He said it with a grin, and Aimeric realized he was starting to grin back.

“I know. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that, this time around.”

“Glad to hear it.” Lazar clapped him on the shoulder. It was a little too hard to be friendly, but it was something. “Punching you was never as fun as I wanted it to be.”

He turned to go, and Aimeric heard himself ask, “How’s--how’s Jord?”

Lazar stopped, looking back at Aimeric over his shoulder. His jaw moved slightly, like he was chewing his cheek, mulling over how to answer. “He survived,” he said, eventually. “For the most part. I don’t think he’s ready to face you yet.”

Aimeric nodded, feeling numb. He’d thought as much. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Sure thing.” As Lazar disappeared into the camp, Aimeric stood where he was. So much had happened today that he was having difficulty processing it. He felt, suddenly, as drained as the men returning from Charcy had looked, as if he too had fought a terrible battle. He wasn’t sure if his was a victory or something else entirely.

He made his way to one of the more distant cooking fires, looking to be alone for a while. It was as he was walking that something Lazar had said came back to him, and he stopped in his tracks.

_ “Sure, it was for money, and not my family.” _

Lazar didn’t know the truth. Jord hadn’t told the men the real reason why Aimeric had been planning to betray the Prince. His fists, curled at his sides, shook. Even now, after everything, Jord was protecting him by keeping that secret.

He wanted to seek Jord out, to apologize again, to, to say  _ something. _ Instead, he swallowed, and kept walking. Lazar was right; Jord wasn’t ready. Aimeric didn’t really think he was, either. That didn’t stop the longing, and as he sat down by one of the cooking fires, across from a man he didn’t recognize, he tried not to let himself slip into fantasies of Jord coming to his tent in the night, the way he used to, and kissing him in that same slow, hungry way that made Aimeric feel like he could never want anything more than he wanted this. 


	6. New Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Aimeric tries to find his place in serving the Prince, Akielos and Vere try to make an alliance work. Success doesn't come easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this fic overall is definitely turning out longer than I'd thought it would, oops! thank you all for the comments and kudos and views, it's good to know this monster of a 'oh god my poor baby' story is as an enjoyable read as it is for me to write it!
> 
> today's theme: Lazar is a thirsty boy

Govart died the next day.

Aimeric almost missed the news, amidst all the preparations for the Prince’s announcement that he would be aligning with Akielos. He was glad for the busy work, the way men scrambled to don their armor and fall into line. It kept him from thinking about the fact that his father was in camp, as part of Laurent’s entourage.

And when news came that Govart had died from the injuries the Prince had given him, Aimeric used that as a distraction, too, basking in the satisfaction and pleasure of knowing he would never be on the receiving end of that greasy smile ever again.

It was the only good news of the morning. The Veretian camp knew what was coming, and no one liked it. To ally themselves with their greatest enemy, Damianos, Prince-killer, was difficult enough. To know, from the rumors burning like wildfire through the men, built off of those begun by Aimeric himself at Acquitart over a week ago, that Laurent had been fucked by the man who killed his brother, only made things worse. It was a delicate situation, and for once Aimeric did not envy Laurent’s position in being in charge of it.

The Akielon army was already assembled when the Veretians marched across the ground, Laurent at the head. Aimeric was near the front; he had a fairly good view of what happened next, of how Laurent approached Damen through the Akielon camp, how they greeted each other in the Akielon style of visiting royalty - as brothers. It turned Aimeric’s stomach, and he swallowed as they sat on the twin oaken seats together, and addressed the amassed troops.

He saw the Akielons’ reaction to Damen’s pronouncement of an alliance, the aggressive shift in their lines, and felt his own hand fall to his sword hilt, every muscle in his body tense. And then Laurent took their focus away, in his inevitable, controlling manner, by presenting Vere’s gift to Akielos for their partnership.

He couldn’t see what was presented to Damen on a pillow, not from here; there was only a flash of gold as it caught what light filtered into the pavilion. What he did see was the ten prisoners Laurent had brought from the mountains being dragged from their horses and stripped, as attendants hammered posts into the ground outside the pavilion, where they could be clearly viewed by everyone gathered there.

Aimeric hadn’t known the specifics of what Laurent planned to do, what he planned to give. He should have guessed it would be something like this, as the prisoners were brought to the whipping posts and Laurent told the Akielons that these were the men responsible for Tarasis, and therefore their punishment was his gift to the King of Akielos and his people. A cursory glance at the gathered Akielon army found satisfaction on their dark faces, and once more, Aimeric’s stomach turned. They were about to watch ten men be made into raw hunks of meat by Veretian whips, and they were glad for it.

Then again, if he could see some of those very men across the field from him flayed for what they did to Breteau, he might be wearing the same expression.

It took a long time, and on some level Aimeric knew that it must, yet each second dragged on, each crack of a whip seemed to take forever to fall. The cuts, however, those almost seemed to appear in an instant on the naked backs of the raiders, and after a time Aimeric found he couldn’t watch any longer. He looked down, at his feet, and forced himself not to anticipate each subsequent sound, or flinch when it came. When he finally looked up again, it was over, and the men were being carried off of the posts, backs a bloody mess of criss-crossing wounds. This he didn’t let himself look away from, until Damen’s voice drew attention back to the pavilion.

“Every man here knows that you kept us a slave.” Damen’s words rang out, clear and powerful. The way they’d used to, when he ordered the Prince’s men during drills. The way they did on the field of Hellay. Aimeric wondered, again, how he could never have suspected Damen was someone born into power and used to wielding it. “We wear your cuff on our wrist. But today, the Prince of Vere will prove himself our equal.”

Aimeric couldn’t see this gift either, only another flash of gold. It was what he saw of their interaction, how Laurent lifted his hand, how Damen held the gift and unlaced Laurent’s sleeve, that had cold horror blossoming in his breast even before the cuff was closed around Laurent’s wrist. The gold cuff of a slave, the twin to the one Damen kept on his own wrist, and the King of Akielos had the nerve to force Laurent to wear it.

This time it was the Veretian men who shifted, who grumbled and tightened their grips on their weapons, and Aimeric was one of them.

But Laurent accepted it with his usual unerring grace, and the ceremony continued, with neither army breaking form or putting their blades to the throats of the other.

Not yet, anyway.

\- - -

They stayed there for days. The atmosphere was tense; as Aimeric had expected, the exchange of a few gifts did not endear the rival armies to each other. The camps of each army were separated, yet close enough to see each other, and both sides took advantage of the proximity.

“Lift up that skirt, let’s see what’s underneath!” Huet yelled across the stretch of empty field between the edges of the camps. The Akielon soldier he was jeering at scowled and walked faster, and Huet laughed aloud. Aimeric, standing near him, had to hide a snort behind his hand.

This had become a favorite pastime of the men, in the first few days of their stay. Lazar enjoyed watching the Akielons from the edge of camp, and Aimeric often joined him. It kept him from trying to catch glimpses of Jord. Huet would come too, of course, and had apparently accepted Aimeric’s presence with edged indifference. Yet as they stood together talking loudly about how barbaric the Akielons were, Huet almost seemed to warm to him, just a little.

Another Akielon walked by, one Aimeric had seen a few times already. For a soldier, he carried himself with a confidence Aimeric recognized as the bearing of a fellow aristocrat. Lazar lazily lifted his fingers to his lips and whistled, high and loud, and the soldier glanced their way. Unlike the other, Aimeric thought he saw a flash of amusement dance across the soldier’s face before he walked back into the Akielon camp.

“You always notice that one,” Aimeric teased, and Lazar gave him a grin.

“Just because they’re a lot of bastards,” he said, “Doesn’t mean they’re not pretty bastards.”

Amidst the preparations, Aimeric took what time he could to return to the fort and see his mother. He was pretty sure Enguerran saw through the little ‘errands’ he came up with to leave camp, but the Captain let him go anyway. Aimeric tried not to stare at the Captain’s star every time they spoke, though often Jord’s words came back to him anyway.

_This Captaincy means a lot to me._

It was easier than he’d thought it would be, roaming the halls of Fortaine without running into his father. It seemed Guion kept to his personal apartments, and his mother, more often than not, was in the fort proper, seeing to the duties expected from the Lady of the house. Which meant, after speaking with a guard or servant, he would instead find her in the kitchens, or the main hall, somewhere that she would be directing the household staff. Yet she would always take a break from her duties to speak with him, smile at him, and it was so different from how things had been when he was young that it made him dizzy with giddiness, sometimes.

It was during one of these visits that, while telling her of the camp’s progress, Aimeric happened to look up and see Jord enter the main hall with a small group of soldiers. They were led by Enguerran; clearly there was some task needed of the fort. Aimeric tracked Jord’s progress across the hall, and didn’t realize he’d trailed off in the middle of his sentence until his mother gently tapped him on the arm.

“Who was he?” Loyse asked, a knowing smile in her eyes, and Aimeric turned pink.

“He’s…” Aimeric chewed his cheek, and finally decided on, “He was my Captain. Before the battle at Hellay.”

It was, technically, the truth. He didn’t want to dredge up everything else that had happened now, in the middle of a casual chat with his mother. Something in his voice, however, or maybe his face, must have betrayed him, because she put a hand over his and gently squeezed it.

“Will you tell me about him?”

It came out in fits and starts. Aimeric told her of how Jord had always been a leader in the Prince’s Guard, and how he’d taken over as Captain when Laurent dismissed Govart in front of the entire troop. He tried to leave it there.

“Aimeric.” Loyse paused only to give instructions to the servant that approached them, then stepped in front of her son, clasping both of his hands in hers. “My house was once full of children, all of them begging to tell me their stories. You are the only one left. Would you really keep something so important to you from your dear old mother?”

Her eyes glittered with mischief, and Aimeric had to bite his lip on a smile. He didn’t care that he was in full view of the hall, holding his mother’s hands. They were surrounded by the servants of his youth, now that the soldiers had left, and this was his home.

“He’s lowborn,” Aimeric confessed, first. “But he’s a good man. A _great_ man. When I was first starting with the Guard, the others thought I would quit in the first week. Jord didn’t. He treated me like he treated anyone else, and he looked out for me, when we rode out of Arles. And we--” He stopped, blushed darker. “We, um. We grew close. And now…”

The flush faded as he looked down at their joined hands. “He’s very loyal to the Prince. I’m not sure he can forgive me for what I did.”

Loyse didn’t touch his cheek, as she might have if they were alone. Instead, she gave his hands another squeeze. “If he’s this important to you,” she said, “I think you’ll find a way to make this right.”

She let their conversation fall back into logistics, stepping away and returning to her role, delegating to the servants and house staff that approached her. Aimeric appreciated it, as he appreciated her interest in Jord in the first place. He drank the attention up like a dried-out sponge, and when he finally left the fort, he felt buoyed with new hope.

\- - -

In the time they stayed at Fortaine, there were small skirmishes between the separate troops. He didn’t know much more than what was passed around camp, after Laurent had already dealt with the problem: questions of provisions among the Akielon troops leading to a cut in their own, or a brawl between a Veretian soldier and an Akielon leading to Laurent’s decree that any Veretian who struck an Akielon would be executed. It created rumbles among the men, but nothing worse than what had always been passed around. Even with this alliance, and Laurent’s bids to win the favor of the Akielon troop, the talk remained steady.

Laurent was cold, and ruthless. Enough so that he would spread for the very man who had killed his brother, all in a bid to win Akielos’ aid against his uncle.

Something else happened, the last night before they were to ride to Marlas. Once again, Aimeric only learned of it through the rumors that spread through the troop, even as several of the Akielon soldiers were executed for it. They had, apparently, assaulted a Veretian man. Not a soldier. And, it was said, Damianos himself had intervened, and made sure the men responsible would be killed for what they'd done.

Aimeric didn’t want to believe it. Why would Damen do anything for a Veretian, especially one he didn’t know?

Of course, his memory betrayed him, as he thought of the night Damen came to his tent to tell him he should talk to Jord. And of that day, what felt like years ago, when Damen had complimented Aimeric on his perseverance in the drills at Nesson, despite it being his first time in a company.

With hindsight, knowing what he knew now of Damen’s identity, the words carried more weight. A warrior King had told him he’d done well. Pride, much belated, bloomed in him, and Aimeric had a very long moment of struggling with how to deal with that.

Thankfully he didn’t have the time to dwell on it, as they were forming up to begin the march to Marlas. Astride his new horse, Aimeric could partially see Laurent and Damen taking their positions, side by side, at the front of the column. It would be a day’s journey to Marlas, with the Akielon and Veretian forces now combined for the sake of efficiency. Blue and red met in organized lines in a way he had never imagined he’d see, and Aimeric wondered if it would stay that way, once they crossed the border between Vere and Akielos.

It turned out he needn’t have worried. They made good time, crossing mostly clear land between Fortaine and Marlas. Aimeric felt everything in him tighten to a dense, painful mass of knots when they reached the final checkpoint that marked the edge of Delfeur, and when they passed through, unhindered, the relief loosened his muscles so profoundly he nearly fell off his horse.

It looked the same, on the other side. Aimeric had almost expected the landscape to drastically change, to reflect the Akielons themselves. Instead, the grass was just as green, the fields just as gentle, until they began passing through the border villages of Delfeur.

Though there was no obvious fanfare for Laurent’s passing as there had been in Vere, the people here still recognized their Prince. Aimeric saw the sunburst, made of sticks, held up by a small girl as the army squeezed through the town, and his heart went out to her. Six years of Akielon rule had not changed their loyalties, that much was obvious. Aimeric wondered what Damen felt, riding at the head of the column, watching the province he called his own celebrating, in small ways, the arrival of Vere.

It was different at Marlas.

From afar, the fort reminded him of Fortaine, in the way Ravenel had. But as they drew closer, Aimeric could glimpse the crowds of Akielons awaiting Damianos’ presence. He could also see how the fort itself had been marred, stone and silk stripped, buildings adjusted the way Akielons preferred. His entire being rebelled against it, and as the column entered he had to keep tight hold on the reins of his horse, which felt his distress and began fidgeting in kind.

From there, the usual duties began, putting the horses to stable, caring for their armor, cleaning up after the long ride and tucking themselves into the barracks. This time, however, Aimeric was told by a servant that he had a few extra tasks.

He was, as son of Ambassador Guion, to bathe and dress befitting his standing, and attend the bannermen’s feast.

It didn't come as a surprise, and Aimeric realized he'd been expecting the summons. He was even provided with fine, aristocratic clothing for the dinner. A gift from his father, the servant told him, though Aimeric knew who'd really sent it.

He was proven correct when he stepped into the hall. There were couches lining the walls, couches upon which Akielons sprawled casually, as was there custom. He saw the Akielon soldier Lazar favored sitting easily, and thought of how Lazar would stare if he were here. He saw his mother and father, sitting carefully on a couch near where the Prince lounged with an Akielon slave. His father didn't even glance his way. His mother, however, caught his eye across the hall, and she smiled, and he beamed back.

Aimeric did not approach them. Even if he did have the rank to sit with his father, he wouldn't. Instead he took to leaning against a wall near Vannes, accepting a piece of sugared pear when offered by a slave.

She, too, was watching the hall, and the slaves that occupied it. “They're an interesting people, aren't they,” she mused aloud, and it took a moment to realize she was talking to him. When he looked at her, he saw how her eyes were tracking one slave in particular - a woman, olive-toned skin with dark curls spilling down her back, smiling demurely with her gaze on the floor as she offered up the delicacies on the tray she carried.

“I suppose they must be, when you've dealt with the Vaskians for so long.” Aimeric settled into a more casually arrogant lean. “Is it true the Queen rips men apart with her leopards for sport?”

Vannes laughed, a high, tinkling sound. “The pleasures of the Vaskian court are not for the ears of men.”

Aimeric wondered if that were true, or if she was only playing with him. Either was possible. “Why aren't you sitting near his Highness?”

“I will, eventually.” Vannes looked at him then, all charming smiles and twinkling eyes. “I find it's easier to get a measure of a room from the back. Don't you?”

There was a hidden implication there that had him glancing, once again, at his mother. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

The slave Vannes had been watching approached them then, offering her tray of food. Vannes plucked a sweetmeat from it, then, in a more Veretian display, tilted the slave's head up by the chin so she could watch her eat it.

The slave flushed, and Vannes smiled. “You are a pretty thing, aren't you?”

“Thank you, Mistress.” Though her gaze dropped, the pleasure in her smile, in her bearing, was unmistakable. She turned to offer Aimeric the tray next, and when he politely refused, she moved on. But Vannes kept watching.

“And yet,” she said, “They’re more like us than you'd think.”

The hall fell quiet, suddenly. Aimeric straightened, trying to see why - and saw Damen (no, Damianos) entering. He wore the standard attire of Akielon royalty, fabric draped over his form, and as the gathered Akielons dropped to the floor, Aimeric, along with the other Veretians, dropped to one knee, head bowed. Even without seeing him, Aimeric pictured Damen in his mind's eye; where Laurent moved like a panther, all cold and cunning grace, Damen moved like a lion. Confident in his own power, his head high, his gait purposeful.

When the hall rose from their prostrations, so, too, did Aimeric. He watched the Akielon politics unfold, so much more blunt and straightforward than in Vere. The first bannerman - Barieus - was upfront in asking if Damen had taken Laurent as a lover. Aimeric winced. In the Veretian court, such a brazen question would never come to the fore, the asker already out-maneuvered before they'd have the chance. Though of course Laurent fielded it, easily, with no change in demeanor, using the Akielon language as if he'd been born speaking it. Aimeric was not as fluent, but he could keep up.

“You are asking if I lay with the man who killed my own brother?” Laurent repeated.

Barieus said, “A man would have to be ice cold to lay with his brother’s killer.”

And Laurent said, “Then you have your answer.”

Barieus bowed his head, said “Yes, Exalted,” as if Laurent were Akielon royalty, and that was that. The Delfeur bannermen began to pledge, one by one, and Aimeric thought of the other Veretians in the hall. All of them knew how cold Laurent could be, and easily could imagine him fucking his brother's killer to gain favor. These Akielons were ignorant, and apparently dismissed the idea as impossible. None of the Veretians in the hall made to correct them in this error, letting the feast proceed as planned.

Aimeric gratefully accepted the wine brought to him by slaves, enjoying the silken slide of it down his throat. It had been so long since he'd drank something that didn't taste as if it had been brewed in a gutter. He drank through an Akielon slave's singing the tale of some old battle, and it was around his third cup that he noticed Vannes was gone; she'd taken up a seat on a couch to the right of Laurent. He saw how the slave she'd spoken to earlier was now seated with her, feeding her fruit.

And then he saw Jord, beckoned forward by Damen, awkwardly make the Akielon prostrations meant for a king.

They were talking; Aimeric carefully came closer, searching for a nearby couch he could perch on and eavesdrop. There were none; even his father’s couch was full. He ended up standing against another stretch of wall, as close as he could get, and still he couldn't hear anything they said. Frustrated, he knocked back the rest of his wine, and when a slave came bearing another cup, he was quick to drink that, too.

The conversation was not long, and when Jord moved away, he rejoined the knot of Veretian soldiers brought here for their officer status. Enguerran was, of course, chief among them. Aimeric stayed where he was, observing the hall, eating what was brought him and drinking all of the wine he was given.

By the time the feast began to die down, and the guests began to make discreet exits with their slaves of choice, Aimeric was quite thoroughly feeling the effects of the wine he'd drank. He watched Vannes tap the dark-haired slave on the shoulder, watched them leave the hall together. Watched Laurent do the same with the slave that had been attending him all night.

His eyes turned to where Jord should have been. Instead he saw a much smaller group, maybe two or three men, and the back of Jord’s dark head disappearing down a side corridor. He hadn't noticed any slaves paying Jord particular attention; the fact that he might have missed that purposeful shoulder tap drove Aimeric forward, and he followed, shoving his empty cup at a slave as he slipped down the same corridor.

There were several couples retiring down this particular hallway, but when Aimeric caught sight of Jord, he was alone.

Aimeric hurried to catch up, calling out Jord’s name and jogging up beside him when he stopped.

“Jord.” Aimeric repeated, and swallowed. Every word he wanted to say left him. Instead, awkwardly, he said, “Hi.”

“Hey.” Jord looked away, toward the end of the hallway. On the left lay the path to the barracks. “Did you need something?”

“I…” The wine made his head fuzzy, and thinking was difficult. “You're not taking a slave?”

There was a pause, then Jord turned to face him, giving him an odd look. “No. I--no.”

Relief flooded him, and Aimeric grinned without thinking. “Oh. Me neither.”

“Right.” Jord shifted his weight. “Well. Good night.”

“What did the sla--Damianos say to you?”

Jord’s expression changed. He looked sad, almost, or something like it. He studied Aimeric’s face, and Aimeric felt the heat creeping up his neck under Jord’s scrutiny.

“You should give him a chance,” Jord said at last. “He's a good man.”

“A ‘good man’?” Aimeric’s voice came out too loud, disbelief so thick in it to be nearly palpable. “How can you say that, knowing who he is, what he's done? Why are you defending him?”

Jord stared, and as it dawned on him what he’d said, Aimeric felt himself flush darker. Shame filled him now, even before Jord asked,

“Why did I defend you?”

It was a question that didn't need an answer. Jord turned away, heading toward the barracks without another word. Aimeric was left alone in the corridor, the sounds of the feast drifting toward him from the hall he'd left. After a time, he forced himself to move, following the same path as Jord, though he knew he wouldn't see Jord again that night.

\- - -

Aimeric passed out immediately upon reaching his bunk, and wasn't roused by the sound of the fort’s alarm when a mysterious troop rode past not long after. He was awoken early the next morning, however, dragged out of bed with eyes narrowed against the light and a pounding in his head. As he stumbled to dress, he asked Huet, who'd awoken him, what the rush was for.

“There were riders, men we didn't recognize.” Huet said, and Aimeric immediately felt more alert than he had a moment ago. “The Prince wants us to follow them.”

Riding didn't make his headache any better, and neither, as they drew closer to the nearest village, did the thick scent of smoke that wafted toward them. For a sickening moment he wondered if he was back at Breteau, and then the reality hit and he realized this was worse. The scorched earth, the corpses left where they'd fallen on the outskirts of the village, it was all the same; but this time, the bodies were Akielon, in name at the very least. And Aimeric knew, as they dismounted and began cleaning up, that the Regent had done this, just as he had done Tarasis, and in a sense, Breteau.

Three villages slaughtered, all so he could make his nephew look like a traitor.

Aimeric felt nauseous. He took a moment to close his eyes, steady his breathing, opening them again in surprise when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

For an instant he thought it was Jord, until he looked up and saw Lazar, standing beside him, staring out at the remains of the village, expression grim.

“It never gets easier,” Lazar said. “Don't let yourself dwell on it.”

Aimeric didn't see any point in correcting Lazar as to why he was bothered, so he simply nodded. Lazar gave his shoulder a pat, then moved on, toward where soldiers - Akielon and Veretian alike - were already digging pits for the dead.

He tried to take Lazar’s advice, as he dragged corpses to the pits being dug. Don't dwell on it. Just do the work. All the same, he couldn't stop himself from taking some of the same considerations he had at Breteau, and whenever he put a body into the ground, he made that same gesture of goodbye he'd seen Laurent use over that woman in Vere.

There was a slight commotion near the edge of the village, where the Princes had gone, but Aimeric didn't pay much attention. He was too focused on the work at hand. Until, sometime later, when the commotion shifted, and Laurent was rushing toward a knot of Akielon soldiers, his men falling in behind him. Aimeric stopped in his search for another body and followed, just in time to see Laurent step in between Damen’s sword and the Akielon general, Makedon.

“ _Stop!_ ” the Prince ordered, and impossibly, suddenly, Damen did, mid-swing, his sword brushing Laurent’s neck. Aimeric’s breath left him as that blade nestled against his Prince’s skin.

He couldn't quite hear what they said to each other, as the Akielon general lay sprawled in the dirt. But at the end of it, Damen was sheathing his sword, and one of Makedon’s soldiers was helping him up. The crowd began to disperse, and though Aimeric stood there a moment longer, he, too, eventually moved away, back to the work they had yet to complete. The dead wouldn't bury themselves.

\- - -

Aimeric had barely slept, up late into the night finishing the cleanup of that Akielon village, when he was awoken early yet again for the pre-march games.

It was an Akielon custom he didn't understand, but then again, he didn't understand most things about Akielons. From what he had gleaned through snippets of conversation as the camp roused itself, the games were a way to buoy the men, pump up their spirits before a major battle. And, as he was told, they would soon be marching on Karthas. So overall it couldn't hurt to get the troop into a good mood.

Except, Aimeric saw as he lined up with the remainder of the Prince’s Guard, a good portion of the Akielons had not bothered to appear. Dressed in blue livery, Aimeric stood beside Lazar, and from his position he could see the empty chair beside where Damen’s right hand man, Nikandros, sat. The Akielon troop was much smaller as well, and he wondered if Damen had driven one of his generals away the day before by trying to kill him.

He could see his parents from here, seated behind Laurent with Vannes, positions fitting their stations. Vannes had a new pet, and Aimeric recognized the dark-haired beauty from Marlas, hands in her lap and cheeks flushed as Vannes murmured into her ear. Well. The Akielons were very accommodating.

When Damen stood to announce the beginning of the games, everyone went quiet. Aimeric stood straighter despite himself, his attention fully on the two oaken thrones beneath their silk awning.

“Today we pay homage to the fallen,” Damen said. His voice carried across the field, across the seats built to stand only for today. “We fight together, Veretian and Akielon. Compete with honor. Let the games begin.”

\- - -

Aimeric entered the archery competition. He hadn't planned on joining any of it, but Lazar needled him until he agreed, and so he let himself be fitted and prepared by Akielon servants before the competition began.

And he lost - to Lazar. It wasn't by much, but that didn't matter to him. When Lazar’s last arrow rang true, marking his victory, Aimeric found himself beaming. He'd come in second place, and he didn't care. He congratulated Lazar all the way back to where the Guard stood, and laughed when Lazar said Aimeric almost had him.

“It was the sun in my eyes,” Aimeric said, voice low and amused. “That's why you won.”

The other competitions went as smoothly, and Aimeric found himself settling into the friendly, competitive nature of the games. He joined Lazar and Huet in whistling at the Akielon challengers and their bare arms and legs, displaying their muscles for all to see. He was quiet only when Jord stepped forward for the long sword competition. He watched, intent, as Jord faced each opponent, watched how his muscles strained, his jaw set with concentration. And when he won, Aimeric yelled his excitement  louder than any of the Veretian troop, clapping so hard his palms stung.

He wasn't sure if Jord noticed. He looked at the nobles seated behind Laurent, and saw his mother looking back.

Several competitions were won by Akielons. Aimeric grit his teeth against his disappointment; they were trained in this, after all, while the Veretians relied on the skills they learned through their role as soldiers.

It helped that he stood by Lazar, who was wholly focused on that Akielon soldier he'd been whistling at days earlier. Pallas, he knew now, was the soldier’s name, and he excelled at each task he undertook.

Aimeric slanted a glance at Lazar, saw how his gaze followed Pallas’ every move. Especially when it came to the wrestling, when Pallas, in Akielon tradition, stripped himself, and poured oil over his naked flesh.

“I get the feeling,” Aimeric said under his breath, as Pallas locked himself into the starting stance with his opponent, “That this will be your favorite sport.”

“Can't say I know why,” Lazar responded, his eyes glued to the action in front of them. Aimeric bit his lip on a grin.

Pallas won again. All eyes were upon him as he approached the thrones where Laurent and Damen sat, then knelt, still naked, and challenged the King of Akielos to wrestle him.

Aimeric knew the answer even before Damen stood. The King only needed to remove the pin in his shoulder for his garments to fall, and there, naked before everyone gathered, Damen accepted the challenge.

“I can almost see why the Prince would fuck him,” Aimeric muttered, and he heard Lazar’s chuckle, a soft huff of amusement.

As Damen stepped onto the ground, Aimeric saw something else: the criss-crossed web of thick scars on his back from when the Prince had had him lashed nearly to death. Aimeric thought of how the raiders had looked, after fifty lashes. According to palace rumor, Damen had taken a hundred.

And survived, with those thick, unsettling scars serving as proof of it.

The two men placed their hands on each other’s shoulders, settling into the beginning position for Akielon wrestling. Though Pallas was handsome and skilled, Aimeric had heard that Damen bested Govart in a similar contest while dosed with drugs, and so it was obvious that the King would come out victorious. When the match commenced, and he did, all of the men cheered, even the Veretians.

Last of the games was the okton, something Aimeric had heard of but never witnessed. It was an Akielon sport, one that Veretians didn't bother with. Okton involved throwing spears at two targets from horseback, circuiting in a figure eight, and while horse riding was obviously very important in Vere, spears were used for hunting boar, not sport. Still, it would be interesting to watch, considering how a man could get skewered by an errant spear or trampled by horses if he fell, and Aimeric leaned a little to get a better view of the horses being brought to the starting line.

With all the noises of the crowd, it was easy to miss the pounding of approaching hooves, and so both troops were surprised as one when Makedon rode up to the twin thrones, his men filing into their empty places in the stands.

“A village was attacked in my name,” Makedon said, his voice carrying across the grounds. He had pulled his horse up directly in front of Damen. “I want the chance for requital.”

Aimeric looked across the field at Makedon’s men as Makedon continued. “I have eight thousand men that will fight with you in Karthas. But we won't fight under a coward or a green leader who has yet to prove himself in the field.”

Makedon looked back at the okton setup, then at Laurent, and Aimeric had a sinking feeling even before Makedon said, “I will pledge if the Prince will ride.”

“This is bad,” Lazar muttered. Aimeric had to agree; it was no secret that Laurent was an incredible rider, and Aimeric knew he could fight, but the okton was a whole different animal. If Laurent rode and lost, he would not only embarrass himself in front of the Akielons, but he'd embarrass every Veretian present, too.

Damen and Makedon were still talking. Aimeric stared at Laurent, at that beautifully impassive face, and wondered how the Prince would weasel his way out of this one.

And then, shocking everyone, Laurent said, “Why not?”

\- - -

If the crowd had been full of anticipation before, now, with both Laurent and Damen riding in the okton, Aimeric thought the gathered men and women might just burst with it. The other competitors were two Akielon soldiers he didn't remember the names of, and Pallas. Yet it was like the other three weren't there at all; everyone's eyes were on the Prince and King.

Laurent was first to start, and when the horn sounded, Aimeric’s voice joined the roar of the crowd as Laurent launched his horse forward. The noise grew louder when Laurent threw his first spear, tipped in blue, and it landed in the dead center of the target. With each horn, the next rider galloped into the circuit, until all five were on the field.

Laurent rode even better than Aimeric had remembered, and in the heat of the moment, he didn't question the pride that swelled inside his chest. With each spear, Laurent’s aim rang true, as did Damen’s and Pallas’. The other two Akielons weren't doing as well, and Aimeric stopped paying them any attention.

The noise of the stands was so loud Aimeric thought his eardrums might pop, and he didn't care. He was screaming himself hoarse, returning Lazar’s excited, companionable jostling, and generally having more fun than he had in a long time.

The tension grew to a crescendo as the riders took up their spears for the last circuit. And that's when the true danger of the okton came into play.

An errant spear hit the support of the second target, fracturing it. Aimeric didn't see who it came from. What he did see was Pallas and one of the other Akielons throw their spears at a target that had fallen onto the grass, leaving empty space. The green-tipped spear was flying straight for Damen; the black, for Pallas and Laurent, who rode side by side.

It was as if all of the spectators stopped breathing, a collective held inhale as the deadly spears hurtled through the air. Then Damen, with unbelievable strength, snatched Pallas’ spear from the air. The stands exploded.

Then Laurent, riding beside a Pallas clearly stunned by the options he had - take the spear to the throat or move and let it kill the Prince - jumped from his horse to Pallas’ and pushed them both down. The spear flew harmlessly over them and stuck itself in the grass.

Another explosion of sound; and, somehow, another, and another, as both Laurent and Damen threw the spears they held at the remaining target, where they stuck, side by side, in the bullseye. Aimeric was dimly aware of Lazar’s voice in his ear, arm around his shoulders, shaking him as he shouted, “Did you see that! Did you _see that!_ ” and Aimeric’s own yelled, “I know, I know!”

The crowd surged onto the field as the competitors reined in their exhausted mounts. Red and blue mixed together as the stands emptied and, as a whole, bore Laurent and Damen to their thrones. There, they crowned each other in laurels, and the spectators were cheering all over again.

The celebration and excitement in the air meant that drink was soon brought out. Aimeric ended up in a tight knot of men that included Lazar and Huet, Pallas, and the thrower of the black-tipped spear, whose name turned out to be Lydos.

“I thought I was going to be the man to kill the Prince of Vere, and you’d think I’d be glad for it, but instead I thought, ‘Please, let something, anything, stop that from happening,’” he confessed. “And then it didn't, and I was so relieved. Who knew your Prince could _move_ like that!”

“He's full of surprises,” Aimeric said, grinning. His face was open, posture easy, and the good mood of the okton match carried the conversations along as if he'd been friends with these men for years.

He tried to find Jord, at some point, before the celebrations moved inside. He spotted him once, laughing and talking with Damen and Nikandros. Aimeric didn't approach; even in the midst of all this good cheer, his mixed feelings on Damen held him back.

When it grew darker and the crowd began shifting toward the fort, Lazar found him again, and draped an arm over his shoulders.

“You know,” he said, with the warmth of someone who's beginning to feel the effects of his wine, “I think this alliance might work out after all.”

He shoved another cup of wine at Aimeric, who took it, despite already having one half full in his free hand. “I think you're right,” he replied, and as he took a sip, his eyes landed on Jord ahead of them, walking with Huet. “I think,” he went on, “Maybe things will start looking up after this.”


	7. Full of Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The march to Karthas does not go as planned, and Aimeric finds himself dragged along on a mission he did not expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting close! thanks again to everyone who's left kudos and comments, it's always a pleasure to see :>
> 
> also, a note to all authors everywhere, don't have super background characters with few lines, because I will adopt them.
> 
> today's theme: Friendship is Magic(tm)

Aimeric was drunk. Again.

He'd lost sight of Jord as they entered the fort, but it was okay, because he'd had Lazar to talk to, and later, when he'd disappeared into the throng, Vannes, who seemed to materialize out of nowhere.

“Incredible, what our dear Prince did this afternoon, mm?” She'd smiled at him over the rim of her cup. Trailing behind her, led by the gentle twine of her fingers, was the same slave she'd been with their first night at Marlas. “Maeve says it was the most exciting match of okton she's seen to date.”

Aimeric had looked at the slave - Maeve, it seemed - who, though her eyes were still demurely downcast, couldn't keep from smiling and flushing with pleasure. She'd seemed rather taken with Vannes.

“Considering it's the only one I've seen to date, I'm inclined to agree with her,” Aimeric had said with a grin, and Vannes had laughed, then disappeared back into the crowd.

The rest of the night went just as well. Aimeric had ended up in the hall again, partaking freely of the wine and snacks being offered by slaves. There was one hitch, where Makedon approached Laurent and invited him to drink, and Aimeric had worried everything they'd accomplished with the okton would be ruined.

The Prince’s men knew he didn't drink wine, only water. But Laurent, surprising Aimeric for the second time that day, had agreed. And after that, as the drink flowed, they'd seemed to get along better and better.

As the hour grew late, the hall began to empty. Aimeric had spent a good chunk of time talking to Aktis, the other Akielon soldier from the okton match, about his spear technique and whether he'd ever consider boar hunting. The consensus was that he would, and, by the way, where did the Prince learn to ride like that?

Aktis had eventually left, heading to the Akielon barracks. Aimeric, finishing his final cup of wine, went the other direction, toward those of the Veretians.

He was having a tough time of it. The room swayed more than he thought it had any right to, and at some point he had to stop, bracing a hand against the wall while he collected himself.

Then he heard a heartbreakingly familiar voice ask, “Would you like some help?”

He turned, and there was Jord. Aimeric swallowed, waiting to see if it was a hallucination that would disappear. Jord stood there, watching him, not disappearing at all, until he finally nodded.

“My feet won't work right,” he said, and for an instant the corner of Jord’s mouth quirked.

“A lot of wine will do that to you.” Jord slid an arm around Aimeric’s waist, then pulled Aimeric’s arm over his own shoulders, helping him straighten away from the wall. Aimeric leaned against Jord, feeling the familiar warmth of Jord’s hold, and his chest tightened painfully.

They walked for a bit in silence. Aimeric had to put a lot of concentration into keeping his vision from spinning. As they grew closer to the barracks, however, words crowded on his tongue, and eventually he couldn't keep himself from saying, “I miss you.”

Jord stopped, and for a long moment, didn't say anything. What Aimeric could see of his face was carefully blank. He kept going. “I miss talking to you. Have you missed me?”

“Aimeric…” It sounded strained.

“I talk to Lazar some, now. He's got a crush on Pallas, did you know that? I bet half the men do, did you see him during the wrestling--”

“Aimeric.” He stopped talking, and Jord sighed, then said, “How about we sit for a minute.”

There was a bench against the nearby wall, and Jord helped Aimeric over to it, gently setting him down, before sitting beside him. Aimeric looked at his hands, twiddling his fingers together.

“I'm sorry,” he said to his fingers, “But it's true. And, and I want to make up for what I did, I just don't know how--”

“You can't.”

Aimeric looked up, eyes wide, cheeks pink. He felt like he’d been struck. Jord’s features, at this angle, were shadowed in the dim light of the hall, making him look much older than he was. He stared off at the opposite wall.

“You can’t make up for what happened,” Jord said, quietly. “Orlant’s dead, and you killed him. There’s nothing you can do that will change that, or make it alright.”

“I--” Aimeric could feel tears rising in his throat, and he fought them back. To cry now would only make him look more foolish. Jord, however, when he did finally turn his gaze back to Aimeric, didn’t appear angry. He was wearing that same sad expression he had when Aimeric asked him about Damen.

“Orlant was the first friend I made, when I came to Arles.” Jord’s eyes grew unfocused, distant. “My first night here I hit a pub, because what else was I going to do. I was a country nobody looking to be a soldier, and I had no idea where to start. So I thought I’d get a pint, worry about it in the morning.” He paused, a small smile coming to his lips as he thought of it. “There was a...misunderstanding with another patron. Guy tried to break a chair over my head. Orlant, though, he’d overheard, and helped me fight the man off. I bought him a drink as thanks, he introduced himself, and we realized we were in Arles for the same reason.”

“Jord…” Aimeric said, but Jord continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Orlant always had a temper, always looked for a reason to fight. It didn’t always have to be a good one. He was protective, and I knew it would get him in trouble some day.” Jord’s gaze dropped to the floor as he murmured, “It turns out I was right.”

Aimeric didn’t know what to say. The tears were threatening again, and he could feel them gathering in the corners of his eyes. The haze of wine made it harder to keep his emotions in check, and he startled them both with his loud sniff. Jord looked at him with something like shock, and he felt himself turning red again.

“Sorry, I, I’m just--” Aimeric could feel his voice cracking, and the shame of it roiled inside him. He went completely still when he felt a touch to his cheek, a thumb brushing away the tear that had spilled.

“I know,” Jord said softly. Aimeric looked at him, surprise and confusion stemming his crying. Jord was so close, and though he wasn’t smiling any longer, he was looking as kindly at Aimeric as he ever had.

Aimeric wanted to kiss him so badly. Jord was _right there_ , it wouldn’t take much--

Jord’s hand dropped, and he stood. “Come on, let’s get you back to the barracks.”

“...Yes.” The moment was gone. Aimeric allowed himself to be helped up, Jord’s arm around his waist, his arm around Jord’s shoulders. Before they started moving, however, Jord hesitated.

“We should...talk. Tomorrow, when you’re sober.” Jord gave a wry chuckle. “If you don’t die of embarrassment when you remember what you said. If you even remember.”

Aimeric didn’t want to think about how he would feel in the morning, so instead he said, “Yes. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

The rest of the walk to the barracks was in silence, as Aimeric’s concentration returned to keeping the room from spinning. When they reached it, Jord carefully rolled him onto his bunk, brought him some water, and then left an empty helmet next to his bed, the open neck facing upward. Aimeric frowned, brows knitting in an almost comical way.

“What’s that for?”

“Trust me, you’ll know if you need it.” With that, Jord left him alone, and Aimeric tried not to think too much about what he’d said, or how he’d teared up. Instead, he stared at the bottom of the bunk above him until the his vision stayed steady, and then he fell asleep.

\- - -

Aimeric didn’t end up needing the empty helmet. He awoke at intervals in the night thinking he might, but instead he chugged the water Jord had left for him and went back to sleep. When he finally woke in the morning, he felt as if a blacksmith’s hammer were using his head as an anvil. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick, and he didn’t even want to think about food.

The events of the night before came back to him slowly, and fuzzy as the memories were from all the wine, he remembered enough of what he’d said and done around Jord to wonder if it were too late to go back and kill himself in that room in Fortaine.

There was time before the armies marched for Karthas, time for preparations and duties, and Aimeric took quite a bit of that time just to get out of bed. When he finally stood, wincing in the morning light, he felt a hardy smack against his back that nearly had him falling onto his face.

“C’mon, nightingale.” It was Huet, grinning from ear to ear. “Up and at ‘em! Can’t let a little hangover get you down.”

“‘Nightingale’?” Aimeric said it to himself on a grumble as Huet moved on, but Lazar was the next one at his side, smirking in a way that had Aimeric scowling.

“He’s got a point,” Lazar mused, and laughed when Aimeric hissed at him. “Don’t be like that. I’ve got something that’ll help with that headache.”

The ‘something’, Aimeric found, once he’d dressed and reported to the courtyard, was the worst tea he had ever tasted. Lazar apparently had it brewed by the kitchens while they made breakfast for the troops, and when he brought a steaming cup of it to press into Aimeric’s hands, the smell alone almost made him gag.

“What _is_ this?” he gasped, holding the cup away. He was too disgusted to be annoyed by how Huet guffawed in the background, or how Lazar stood before him, arms crossed and still smirking.

“Told you. It’ll help.” He leaned forward, smug and insufferable, and Aimeric had to check the urge to throw the tea into his face. “Make sure you drink it all.”

The brew tasted even worse than it smelled, and as Aimeric drank it, he felt for certain this would be what made him expel the contents of his stomach more than his hangover did. He ended up in a corner of the courtyard nursing the tea, taking advantage of the reprieve afforded the soldiers while their commanders strategized, and nearly dropped his cup when Jord approached him.

Jord, who took one look at Aimeric’s face and the cup in his hands before chuckling. “Lazar’s hangover cure, I take it.”

“No,” Aimeric said, petulant. Then he huffed, and said, “Yes.”

“It’s harsh, but it works.” Jord glanced away, then, hand rising to rub his neck, before he stopped halfway and let it drop back to his side. “Do you…”

“Remember last night?” Aimeric had to keep his eyes on the tea. “Yes. Did you still want to talk?”

“I do.” He heard Jord draw a careful breath, and then the tap of boot against stone as he stepped closer. Aimeric forced himself to look up, and meet Jord’s eyes.

“I meant what I said. About Orlant.” Jord’s voice was firm, and Aimeric felt that hard knot forming in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him. And then Jord said, “But I do think you’re a good man. I think you can do better. And I want to give you that chance.”

Aimeric blinked. “What?”

“I trust Damen. Even after what he’d done, what he hid from us.” Jord looked slightly uncomfortable, then, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “And it’s unfair for me to hold what you’ve done against you. You can’t make it right...but we can move on from here. So I wanted to say, that, if you agree to it, I’d like to start over, as friends.”

Friends. The word eased some of the tightness in his chest, even as it tore Aimeric apart. He managed a smile.

“I’d like that.”

Jord smiled, too, that simple curve of his lip at the corner, and extended a hand. “Good. Friends it is.”

Aimeric took the offered hand, his grip firmer than he had thought it could be when he was in this state. And as they looked each other in the eye, cementing this decision, Aimeric felt how the hold went a little longer than was necessary, how warm Jord’s palm felt against his own.

Eventually Jord let go, fingers sliding against fingers. “We ride for Karthas soon,” he said, and Aimeric wondered if he was just imagining the roughness to Jord’s voice. “You should finish that tea. It really will help, trust me.”

He walked off, then, leaving Aimeric to glare down into the remainder of his tea. In the end, he chose to chug what was left, and returned to his duties spluttering and hissing at the aftertaste.

\- - -

He didn't know if it was the tea or simply time, but Aimeric did begin to feel marginally better as the day wore on. Or at least, he felt less like his head might split in twain before they even reached Karthas.

Who had been warned of their arrival, apparently. Aimeric’s brows furrowed when he learned this.

“Why would they tell the enemy we're coming?” he asked Lazar, who shrugged.

“Akielon custom, I guess.”

“I'll never understand them.”

The ride to Karthas was fairly easy, though Aimeric was distracted several times by looking behind him at the army, a sea of blue and red that stretched almost as far back as the eye could see. He felt powerful, being part of such a show of might. Even if the Akielons at Karthas knew they were coming, surely this force would be enough to overtake the fort.

If they even had to fight at all. As part of the Prince’s Guard, Aimeric was close enough to the front of the troops to see what was happening as they neared Karthas. It didn't make any sense; the fort didn't look like it was waiting for them, bristling with Akielon arrows ready to fire. Instead, he watched a small group detach from the Akielon forces to clear the first tower, and they came back reporting it was empty.

No traps, no troops. Nothing.

It happened again and again, as each tower was checked and found abandoned. There was no one there.

“It's a trap,” Aimeric said, aloud, to no one in particular. “It has to be.”

“Akielons don't fight that way,” Lazar said, mounted beside him. Even so, he sounded troubled.

Every muscle in Aimeric’s body sung with tension as Damen led them into the fort, past the forecourt, through the main doors. He was waiting for something to happen, some trap to be sprung, and still, there was nothing. Instead they passed signs of a hurried retreat, abandoned baskets, laundry left on a line. As the men dispersed throughout the fort, making sure it was secure, the truth became impossible to ignore: there was no trap. The Akielon forces at Karthas were gone. There was nobody left.

Until a small solar room in the heart of the fort was opened, and more recent news rippled through the troop. There _was_ someone left - and it was Jokaste, the woman currently labeling herself as Queen of Akielos.

\---

Aimeric didn't know where they took Jokaste. The Akielons handled that themselves. He did hear, however, of what Jokaste looked like: pale, golden-haired, with cool blue eyes.

Aimeric was in the barracks, cleaning his armor with the rest of the Prince’s Guard. Lazar was next to him, and Jord nearby; Aimeric kept glancing his way. Their friendship was newly born, and he kept reflecting on how it felt between them.

“So she looks just like the Prince, is what they're saying.” Lazar cleaned his chestplate, looking up at Aimeric. “Acts a lot like him too.”

“It sounds like this family has a type,” Aimeric said, and Lazar snorted. He glanced Jord’s way, worried at his reaction.

Jord just shrugged and hefted his pauldrons. “When you know what you like, why vary?”

“Because your type is a viper?” Lazar replied casually, and it was Aimeric’s turn to snort. Even Jord’s lip quirked.

“When you're up against the Regent,” he said, “Sometimes that's what you have to be.”

The rest of the day was filled with the usual duties, and Aimeric went to bed early. He needed the sleep and he knew it, no matter how much Lazar needled him for it. Jord even came to his defense, saying he was going to bed early too, and Aimeric had to turn away to hide his pleased smile. It felt good, being able to talk to Jord again, even if the distance left between them made Aimeric ache.

The next morning, he joined Lazar for morning patrols feeling much better than he had the last three mornings. There really was nothing better than a good night's sleep, even on a hard barracks bed.

He and Lazar were theorizing on what the Prince would decide to do next when they rounded a corner and nearly ran into Pallas.

“Hey--” Lazar began, then stopped as they got a good look at Pallas’ face. He was clearly shocked, almost spooked, as if something had startled him badly.

“You, uh, you okay?” Aimeric asked, and Pallas blinked.

“Oh. Sorry. Yes, I ah. I'm fine.”

“You look pretty shaken up,” Lazar said. “Anything we can help with?”

“Ah.” Pallas shook his head, then flushed. “No, it's really nothing. I’m on my way to convey the King’s orders. He’s, um, he and the Prince are currently. Occupied.”

Realization dawned slowly, though Pallas didn't elaborate. Aimeric felt the giggle climb up his throat, and had to cover his mouth with a hand.

“Did you see them…?” he asked, and Pallas just kind of slowly nodded.

Lazar’s laughter was quiet, his shoulders shaking as he bowed his head. Aimeric’s, meanwhile, exploded out of him. He had to bend forward, resting his hands on his knees as his laughter filled the hall.

“Congratulations, Pallas,” he wheezed, “You've just been promoted to Councillor!”

Pallas’ shock turned to confusion, and, as Lazar explained the Veretian custom of a King’s marriage being consummated in front of the Council, slowly growing horror. Aimeric, meanwhile, stayed bent, his body wracked with mirth. He didn't even care that this proved, for certain, that Laurent was spreading for Damen. He couldn't get the image of poor Pallas walking in on Damen fucking the Prince of Vere out of his head.

“It's not that funny,” Pallas said reproachfully. Aimeric gasped, wiping his eyes as the giggles began to fade and he straightened.

“It's pretty funny.” Lazar was grinning, and Pallas flushed.

“And you call _us_ barbarians.”

Aimeric, still trying to catch his breath, shrugged. “You did wrestle your King naked.”

“That's _sports!_ ” Pallas insisted. “It's _different!_ ”

“Whatever you say.” Aimeric was grinning now, and he knew Lazar still was. Pallas narrowed his eyes at them both, though his lip twitched, betraying him.

“Fine. Just don't...tell anyone.”

“Our troop already knows,” Lazar drawled, glancing sidelong at Aimeric, who purposefully averted his eyes. “So don't worry, we won't tell yours.”

“Well. Good.” Schooling his features back to neutral, Pallas hurried away down the hall. Lazar and Aimeric watched him go, then when he was out of sight, exchanged glances, and burst into another round of laughter.

“You'd think he saw a ghost,” Aimeric said, hiccuping.

“They walk around half naked, wrestle _fully_ naked, and constantly bed their slaves and each other; yet it's seeing the act itself that flusters them.” Lazar shook his head, still chuckling. “Come on, we're behind on patrol.”

\---

The orders came that afternoon: Damen and Laurent, along with Jokaste, Guion, and Loyse, would pretend to be cloth merchants needing an entourage of soldiers. As it was to be such a small force, they were only taking their best, including the men who had won in the games: Jord, Lazar, Lydos, and Aktis.

And, bizarrely, Aimeric.

“You...really want me with you?” he asked, when Laurent told him.

They were standing in the courtyard as the wagons were prepared. The other men had been sent to get dressed; as they were pretending to be Akielon soldiers, they needed Akielon armor. Jord had glanced back when Aimeric remained to voice the question on his tongue, but left with the others.

“You killed Orlant,” Laurent said plainly, and ignored how Aimeric winced. “And so have proven yourself with a sword. Lazar only just bested you at archery, and so you have proven yourself with a bow. I think you will be perfectly capable.”

There was more to it, there had to be. He glanced at the wagons, thought of how his mother would be riding there with Jokaste, and it hit him.

Carefully, he asked, “Is my mother not enough leverage against the Ambassador?”

Laurent didn't even try to deny it. He studied Aimeric’s face, then replied smoothly, “One can never be too careful.”

He walked away then, leaving Aimeric stunned and staring after him. The venom that should have come upon realizing he was being used as a pawn in Laurent’s schemes wasn't there. He realized, distantly, that sometime in the past few weeks he had become used to it.  

“Aimeric.” His head jerked up, and there stood Damianos, King of Akielos, looking right at him.

“Yes, Exalted?”

“You did well in the archery competition. I didn't get a chance to tell you.” Aimeric blinked, stupidly, the words taking their sweet time sinking in. When they did, his emotions betrayed him once again as pride spread like the sun’s warmth through his limbs.

“Oh.” Aimeric knew his cheeks were pink, but there was nothing he could do about it. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” And then: “I'm glad you're coming along. Your mother will need better company than Jokaste.”

 _And Guion_ , went unspoken, because Damen wasn't the type to insult a man's father in front of him. Not that, if he had, Aimeric would've disagreed.

“I--thank you.” Aimeric gave a quick bow, and then fled back to the barracks to get dressed, his heart pounding and a pleased little smile on his face.

\---

Aimeric wondered if his taunting of Akielon armor was the reason why he was being forced to wear it now, some sort of lesson from the universe to teach him not to run his mouth.

“I feel so _exposed_ ,” he complained to Lazar. He purposefully kept his back to the other half of the room, where Jord was. Whenever he caught a glimpse of Jord’s bare arms and legs, the tight corded muscle there, he turned red.

“We'll just have to get used to it.” Yet even Lazar looked uncomfortable, and kept tugging at the armor’s skirt as if that would make it longer. He added, “One sneeze and the secret’s out.”

“It would be pretty odd if a merchant’s entourage were dressed like Veretians in the heart of Akielos.” Jord. He'd come up beside Aimeric, who kept his eyes forward, and wondered if he had imagined the slight waver to Jord’s voice.

“Besides,” Jord continued, gesturing off to their left, where Huet was admiring the biceps of one of the spearsmen coming with them, “Huet seems to like them.”

The laced sandals, at least, were actually very comfortable, and Aimeric found that having this much skin free of covering made it easier to deal with the summer heat. He closed his eyes a moment as they re-entered the courtyard, enjoying the gentle breeze wafting along his skin. When he opened his eyes, he found Lydos looking at him and grinning.

“You know,” he said, “the armor looks good on you.”

Aimeric grinned back. “You think so? Maybe we should bring it full circle, dress up you Akielons in Veretian livery sometime.”

He laughed at the way Lydos grimaced, over-exaggerated and not at all bothered. Behind him was Pallas, whose smug attitude as he looked over the Veretians oozed off of him in waves. Lazar rolled his eyes at him, but the way his lip curved undermined the annoyance.

They mounted up. Aimeric knew his father was riding with them, pretending, like Paschal, to be a soldier, and he purposefully kept himself on the other side of the wagons from Guion. Jord pulled his horse up beside Aimeric’s, a gentle crease between his brows, and leaned over to ask, “You going to be alright, with him here?”

Aimeric’s grip on the reins were tight, but he nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

Laurent and Damen arrived then, completing their group, and as Damen went to brief his own men, Aimeric nearly choked on his own tongue when Laurent approached. The chiton he wore was short, baring his legs up to the mid-thigh, and his arms - one shoulder - his collarbone - all were exposed. Aimeric had never seen so much of the Prince’s skin, and he was certain he was blushing straight up to his hairline. Beside him, he could almost sense Jord’s similar shock and fluster. Laurent, of course, did not at all seem fazed, and delivered his briefing plainly.

They were simple soldiers, guiding cloth merchants through Akielos. They would follow his lead, no matter what, and not question anything he did.

Which wasn’t new, and the familiarity of Laurent’s controlling ways settled Aimeric somewhat. That didn’t, of course, stop him from staring at Laurent until he disappeared inside one of the wagons.

They made good time, considering the wagons moved at a painfully slow pace. Aimeric found himself missing the marches in the army, where maybe he was surrounded by thousands of men, but they moved briskly, miles disappearing beneath their feet and the horses’ hooves. Ambling along beside the wagons, where he couldn’t even see or talk to his mother, was almost torturous in comparison.

Especially when they neared the first border checkpoint. Damn Akelios, dividing itself up like this, so that they had to worry each time they passed through a different province. Aimeric’s nerves wound themselves tight as they slowly, casually, approached the sentry. He didn’t want to charge the blockade so much as move faster than this crawl, though he knew they couldn’t. A simple merchant had no reason to hurry.

Finally, a guard and Captain approached, and they stopped, waiting for Damen to talk his way through the checkpoint. Aimeric felt himself sweating, even with the breezy Akielon armor. For all his strength, Damen did not have Laurent’s silver tongue, and he was sure something was going to go wrong.

And something did, of course. Aimeric quietly backed his horse away to give the guard room as he knocked at the wagon’s door. There came no response, not the second time, or the third.

Which was when the Captain, still with Damen, shouted “Open it up!”

Aimeric fought the urge to reach for his sword as the guard busted the wagon’s door open and let it swing wide. And - inside was a woman, coldly beautiful, golden hair catching the sunlight as she leaned forward to speak with the guard.

He was having trouble controlling his face. An eyebrow twitched, his teeth oh so subtly dug into his lower lip. The woman spoke in a low, throaty voice, and Aimeric bit his lip harder.

It lasted so long he thought he might burst, and then the guard withdrew, and whatever was said to Damen at the head of the party, it had them moving along through the blockade with the Captain leading the way.

In his saddle, Aimeric subtly shook. Jord, who hadn’t seen what he’d seen from the same angle, came up beside him again.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” It came out as a squeak, incredibly unbelievable. Aimeric swallowed, hard, and repeated, “Nothing, nothing. I’m fine.” He could tell that Jord didn’t believe him, but he didn’t press, and for that, Aimeric was grateful.

Grateful because it took everything in him to hold it down through all of the checkpoints and the two miles beyond, until finally, finally, the wagons stopped, and the door to Jokaste’s opened.

And there stood Laurent. Aimeric shook harder. It was only when Laurent, unaffected, almost bored, tossed a wad of silk at one of the other soldiers that Aimeric let out the bark of laughter he’d been holding in ever since he saw Laurent sitting pretty in a blue dress and pretending to be Jokaste, wife of Kastor.

\- - -

Aimeric somehow survived laughing at the Prince of Vere, and after relocating Jokaste to the correct wagon, the party moved further on. Damen and Laurent had ridden on ahead to scout out an old friend of Damen’s, and so Nikandros was in charge, and he kept the wagons going. Aimeric was thinking ahead to the potential reprieve from all this nervous tension when, instead, not long after he’d left, Damen came riding back hard to inform them that his friend’s home was compromised and they needed to find cover.

If Aimeric had thought the approach of the border was nerve-wracking, this was much, much worse. Even pushed as fast as they would go, the wagons were slow, and each second they spent out in the open was another moment Kastor’s men could find them. His mother had foregone what she’d been told and pushed aside the curtain on one of the wagon’s windows, her white face pressed against it as she looked at Aimeric, as he tried to reassure her, through gesture alone, that they would be all right. He didn’t think it was working; whatever he gestured, the tightness in his own face would only undermine his efforts.

Finally, Damen spotted somewhere they could hide, and came up with a plan that seemed about as high risk as anything else they were doing on this journey. The men followed his orders, and when the group reached a shallow stream shadowed by trees, they guided the wagons down its banks as carefully as they could. Neither wagon took the trip well, but they remained intact. The problem then became getting them to move along the streambed.

Aimeric, along with the others, jumped off their horses and dug their fingers as best they could into the frames of the wagons, then _heaved_. Even Damen joined them, and together they shoved with all their might until the wagons finally started moving, following the gentle current of the water.

Just in time. The sound of approaching horses had Damen ordering them to cover, and they all grabbed their horses and hurried into the copse of trees ahead, thick enough to shield them from the road.

Or so they hoped.

Aimeric didn’t realize the different soldiers had separated themselves by nation. He didn’t realize that, in grouping with the other Veretian men, he’d grabbed Jord’s hand and held tight. All he knew was the pounding of his heart in his ears, and the pounding of hooves on the road above them. The latter could stop at any moment and it would mean their discovery, the failure of everything they had been trying to achieve, the end of Vere and Akielos alike--

The hooves pounded on, not stopping, not slowing. Eventually, they faded into the distance, and the taut atmosphere of their little band dissolved into relief. Aimeric laughed as he sucked in a breath, the sound tinged with hysteria, and then Jord said softly, “Aimeric.”

He looked up at Jord, saw the complicated expression on his face. He looked down at their hands, still joined. He let go and backed up so quickly he nearly fell into the stream.

“Um.” His face burned. “Sorry.”

They stared at each other, and then Jord said, “It’s alright.”

Damen gave the nod, then, and the men began to move. Aimeric maneuvered himself next to Lazar, who raised an eyebrow at him, though smartly said nothing at the look Aimeric shot him back. Focusing on the walk ahead, picking their horses along the uneven and slippery stones, keeping the wagons from getting stuck, kept his mind off of what had just happened.

When Damen stopped them, the tension returned. Aimeric knew, logically, that they were waiting for Laurent. It didn’t stop him from automatically drawing his sword along with the others when they heard something approaching, all of the men on edge. He even quietly angled himself near the wagon that held his mother, ready to take on Kastor himself to protect her.

And then Laurent appeared, pale as a spirit winding its way through the trees, and everything in him relaxed, his sword sliding easily back into its sheath.

“You’re late,” he heard Damen say, and then Laurent said, “I brought you a souvenir.”

Aimeric didn’t pay attention to what Laurent had thrown Damen; he could only feel a quiet, fierce pride at how Laurent had found them, with no direction as to where they would be, considering how spur of the moment Damen’s plan had been. The pride grew into smug when Nikandros questioned Laurent’s tactics and Laurent easily undermined the barb in it.

With Laurent with them once more, they started walking again. At some point, restless and skittish, Aimeric volunteered to ride ahead to check that the stream remained shallow, that its bed remained level for the passage of their wagons and horses. Lydos went with him, and together they scouted further into the trees. With daylight beginning to wane, branches left long, brooding shadows along the banks, and it became more difficult to see where the most slippery of stones were.

“Guess we should head back,” Lydos said, frowning at stream ahead.

“At least we can report that it stays the same up to this point.” Aimeric glanced around, looking for some sort of landmark to track their progress, and pointed at a particularly sharp jut of stone on the bank. “There. Up to arrowhead rock, we know, for certain, the stream remains shallow.”

“‘Arrowhead’?” Lydos’ tone was playful, and though a shadow fell over part of his face from the trees above, Aimeric could see his grin. “Spoken like an archer. Why not ‘spearpoint’?”

They began picking their horses back along the way they’d come. The trees had become thicker, near Aimeric’s landmark, and so it became a little easier the further along they went as the trees thinned again, the late afternoon sunlight illuminating their path.

“Because,” Aimeric said, sitting straight in his saddle, “I saw it first, so I get to name it. Which makes it Arrowpoint.”

“Mhm.” Lydos jerked sharply at his horse’s reins to keep her from stepping straight onto a smooth, shiny expanse of stone, and it was a sudden hiss that had Aimeric looking toward him.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just…” He grinned again, reassuring. His left hand stroked along the length of his right arm, centering on the elbow. “A little sore, is all.”

“Maybe you should have Paschal look at it. He can give you some ‘soft Akielon’ salve.”

“Soft, is that what you think?” The glitter of Lydos’ eyes when Aimeric glanced at him again was challenging, and Aimeric felt himself beginning to smirk in response to it, his hands tightening on the reins of his horse the same way Lydos’ were.

“That is what I said.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Their little race back to camp wasn’t exactly smart, even if they couldn’t get their horses above a canter, considering the terrain. They drew even just before the others, where Aimeric threw out an arm and hissed that they very much _could not_ let Laurent know they’d been racing two of their only horses along a slippery, dangerous streambed. Lydos made a gesture Aimeric didn’t recognize, and, as they dismounted and led their horses to where the men had drawn to a stop for the night, explained that it meant a promise kept between two people. After they had tied up their horses with the others, while Pallas and Aktis speared fish from the stream, Lydos showed Aimeric how to do it.

The fish, when cooked, was good, and the wine was tolerable, and all in all it was one of the more pleasant camp meals he’d had. There was only a slight skirmish when Pallas, as they were grabbing their bedrolls for the night, seemed about ready to leap at Laurent for daring to tell Damen to unpack one, but it was resolved quickly. The Akielon men were much more on edge than the Veretians, and after Jord had left with Lydos for the watch, that became very apparent when they all jumped up as their King came to sit with them around the fire.

Aimeric, seated next to Lazar, only looked up at the flurry of motion, and suddenly all of the Akielon men were standing. He watched in confusion until it dawned that they weren’t used to Damen joining them like this, hadn’t spent weeks with Damen seated beside them at camp fires as just another member of the troop...well. In a sense. He and Lazar shared quiet amusement when Damen poured a cup of wine and offered it to Pallas, who stared at it as if it might bite him if he touched it.

Laurent, of course, solved the problem. In a display bordering so closely on casual Aimeric had trouble processing it, Laurent sat himself down beside Damen and began retelling some escapade involving a brothel and the very blue dress he’d used that day. Both he and Lazar found themselves turning red at how lewd the story was, though Aimeric was also biting his lip on more laughter, the sound leaking out in wheezy gusts between his teeth, while Pallas laughed outright and wiped at the tears that formed in his eyes. The atmosphere eased from there, as Aimeric joined with the others in asking questions about Laurent’s time at the brothel, and practically stuffing a fist in his mouth to keep from letting loose his loud, roaring laughs.

Then, though both sides had been involved in the escape from Kastor’s men, the Akielons took point in telling the tale. Aktis did a very good job in conveying how they crept through the trees, holding their breath, and then Pallas did an impression of Paschal’s riding that had them all grinning. He felt more than saw the shift in Lazar’s attention, and hid his smile in his cup.

When the men began to move away from the fire to spread their bedrolls along the banks, Aimeric went with Lazar and Paschal, the three of them lying down in a sort of semicircle on the ground with Lazar in the center. Paschal was asleep almost at once, and immediately began to snore.  

Aimeric, awake for the moment, rolled onto his side and murmured, “You’re not very subtle.”

He heard Lazar’s soft chuckle, saw him roll to face him. “And why,” Lazar said, “Should I be subtle?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aimeric said, faking thoughtfulness, “I guess, then, if he’s going to spread for you, he’ll just have to like a man who wears his desire on his sleeve.”

He felt Lazar’s hand smack against his shoulder, and he pressed his face into his bedroll to muffle his laugh as Lazar said, “You be quiet, nightingale.”

There was no anger in his voice. It was the nickname that had Aimeric asking, “Where did _that_ come from?”

Lazar replied, as he rolled onto his other side, “Because you have pretty lips.”

Aimeric felt his cheeks grow warm, was grateful that it would be hard to see in the darkness. And then, after a long moment, he said, “Nightingales don’t _have_ lips.”

“Can’t hear you, I’m sleeping,” came Lazar’s muffled response, and Aimeric huffed, and went quiet. After a bit, he heard Lazar’s breathing even out, and he rolled onto his back and looked up at the stars, thinking about nightingales and blue dresses.

\- - -

The journey along the streambed was slow, but altogether without issue. Aimeric spent a lot of time around Lazar and Lydos, and when he did speak to Jord, he felt stiff and awkward, though he worked to show none of it in his face. They were friends again, and he refused to let one stupid mistake get in the way of that.

After five days, Damen deemed it safe enough to bring their party back onto the road, which was an unspoken relief among all of them. Aimeric felt like his toes would never stop looking as shriveled as they did, after all the time he had spent wading through the stream in his open sandals. Though the dust of the road immediately stuck to his damp feet he didn’t care, happy to be firmly on solid ground once more.

And then one of the wagons almost immediately broke down.

Aimeric, used to the dirt by now, crouched beside the listing wagon as Lazar toiled beneath it. There wasn’t much he could do beyond try and prop some of the weight up with his shoulder and peer down at Lazar, sweating and getting smudged with the muck the wagon’s underside had gathered in the streambed as he worked.

When Lazar finally emerged, he had a dark stain of mud against his cheek, and he said, “The axel’s broken.”

Damen gave an odd nod, and Aimeric recognized a man who didn’t actually understand what was happening, who was only pretending to, and thought, _Even I know what an axel is--_ before the order was being given for the men to fix it.

He returned to the wagon as Lazar slid back beneath it, propping it up with Lydos’ help on their side, their shoulders bumping together, until suddenly everything stopped. Aimeric heard the lack of noise before he saw the cause of it, and as he turned his gaze to the hand Damen held up, he reached beneath the wagon to grab Lazar’s arm, feeling him still beneath the grip.

Something was wrong. He couldn’t see what it was, from where he was crouched with Lydos beside the wagon, both of them tense. He only knew that Damen wouldn’t stop them in their work unless something was--

“Hey!” It was Laurent’s voice. “Hey you! Akielons!”

Aimeric felt all the blood drain from his face. Lydos’ gaze fell upon him, and they stared at each other, wide-eyed, as there came the sound of hooves, and Aimeric knew it was soldiers, and they were done for, and _what was Laurent doing._

There had to be a plan. There had to be. Aimeric stood, as if he were a simple soldier curious as to why they’d been stopped. His blood ran cold when he saw the squadron approaching, fifty mounted men, and Laurent climbing down off one of the wagons to approach them.

They were too far for him to hear what was being said. Instead, he heard Lazar drag himself out from beneath the wagon and stand, heard Lydos hiss at him, “What is he _doing?_ ”

“I don't know,” Aimeric answered, honestly.

The squadron surrounded the group. Aimeric felt his heart in his throat, tried to keep his face completely devoid of his panic. He didn't allow himself to look at the wagon where his mother, father, and Jokaste now sat. He didn't let himself think about how, if this squadron attacked them, they wouldn't stand a chance.

He couldn't hear the conversation between Laurent, Damen, and the Captain, but he could see when the Captain waved his men forward. Aimeric’s fingers twitched, longing to go to his sword - until, instead, one of the approaching soldiers dismounted, came up to them and said, “We're to help fix that axel.”

It was bizarre, working alongside these Akielon soldiers, and Aimeric called upon all his court training to get through it without saying or doing anything suspicious. When the wagons were fixed, the men mounted up and rode on, following the Captain’s lead. Aimeric was left feeling slightly light-headed. Somehow, even now, Laurent’s ability to twist himself out of a dangerous situation was enough to shock him.

They reached a large inn, and then were told to wait as Laurent and Damen were escorted inside. Aimeric felt the tension rising again, and he sat very still on his horse, watching the inn’s entrance, waiting for the Prince to come back out.

The Prince never did. Instead, the Captain from earlier stepped out from the inn, and approached them. He was sorry, he said, for the misunderstanding; it seemed Charls the Veretian cloth merchant was here at this inn, and he had vouched for his younger cousin...Charls the Veretian cloth merchant.

The soldiers that had been surrounding them were dismissed, leaving Aimeric and the others to tend to their horses and wagons. He dismounted from his horse, and when he was on solid ground again, his eyes caught Jord’s.

A slow grin began spreading across Jord’s lips, and Aimeric felt a giddy laugh bubble out of his throat. Once again, Laurent’s mind had saved them all.

“You were right,” Lydos said to Aimeric as they stabled their horses. “He _is_ full of surprises.”

\- - -

It was dark by the time they were finished. The men were to be staying in the outbuildings, his father among them. Aimeric resolved to be as far away from Guion as possible; he’d sleep in an outbuilding on the other side of the inn’s compound if he had to. His mother, on the other hand, was going to be staying in the wagon with Jokaste for the night.

Before then, away from the men, Loyse came to wish him good night.

She didn't ask, but there was something in her face, the tension of her posture, that had Aimeric wrapping his arms around her and drawing her against him. He held her for a long time; he could feel the slight tremble in her body begin to ease. The last few days had been hard on her, he knew, the constant fear of discovery and death, the close calls. It was all a bit much even for the seasoned Lady of Fortaine.

When they drew apart, she kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “Good night, Mother.”

When he stepped into one of the outbuildings, he saw that Lazar, Jord, Pallas, and Lydos were already there. There was an empty space next to where Jord had laid out his bedroll that Aimeric took for his own.

Lazar was on his other side, glancing every so often at where Pallas was preparing his bedding. “That was close, today.”

“It was.” Aimeric sat down, already stripped to his undershirt and pants. He nodded toward Pallas. “Why don't you just ask to share his bedroll, if you're going to stare all night?”

Lazar snorted, then lifted the blanket he'd been holding in his lap. “I've got a different idea, actually.”

While Aimeric remained where he was, Lazar dragged his bedroll closer to Pallas’, wearing an easy smile when the Akielon looked up at him. “These old buildings are drafty,” he heard Lazar say. “Might get chilly. My blanket’s pretty wide; why don’t we share?”

He saw Pallas hesitate, then return the smile, saw him nod, and then Lazar was starting to lie down on his own bedroll and spreading the blanket out over the two of them.

“Never thought I'd see him go for an Akielon,” came Jord’s quiet voice. Aimeric turned to look at him instead.

“Me neither.” Aimeric lay down facing Jord, who was still sitting. He used a hand to prop his head up. “I didn't expect a lot of what I've seen from him.”

“I noticed you two are friends, now. Never thought I'd see that, either. I remember when it was his fist that had you sprawling in the dirt every other day.”

Aimeric played with the loose laces dangling off his sleeve. “I know. He said that's why he approached me, after Hellay. He...knew what it was like, being the Regent’s man.”

“Mm.” Jord didn't say anything else, and Aimeric felt the air stretch, painfully tight, between them. Aimeric desperately searched for something to say, to change the subject.

After a moment he asked, “So who is Charls the merchant?”

Jord huffed, a sound of amusement. “The Prince met him in Nesson-Eloy. I think he lent Laurent a horse to ride back to the camp, the day…”

He trailed off, and it grew worse. Aimeric curled his free hand in the bedding to keep from reaching to touch Jord.

“Oh. Well, he makes some interesting friends.” Somehow, Aimeric kept the desperate note out of his voice. “And some interesting plans. I still think about that brothel story.”

Jord actually chuckled, and just like that the awkwardness dissipated, and Aimeric felt like he could breathe properly again. “The Prince seems to have a fondness for using lady's clothing. Back when I first joined the Guard, the Regent’s Guard was harassing us, and we weren't allowed to fight back. It was mostly led by a Councillor’s cousin, I don't remember his name.”

Something about the way he said it made Aimeric think he did, but he didn't press. He stayed quiet, and still, as if the slightest sound or movement might spook Jord into stopping.

“It was driving us crazy, but the Prince said he'd take care of it. We didn't believe him - he was fifteen, what could he do? Then, one day, the cousin reported he'd seen Orlant in the barracks with a woman.”

Aimeric couldn't help himself; he gasped, as if on cue. Jord’s lip curved as he nodded.

“Exactly. Orlant was sweet on some of the palace staff, too, so I was afraid this would be the end of us. The Council was brought in, the door to the barracks was forced, and…”

Aimeric found himself leaning forward. He didn't notice it, or how Jord’s eyes glittered at the motion. “And there was Orlant, nearly naked, with someone who was, in fact, wearing the hat of a lady's pet.

“That someone was Huet.”

“ _No,_ ” Aimeric said, and Jord, slowly grinning, said, “Yes.”

“ _Huet?_ With  _Orlant?_ ”

“So it appeared.” Jord lay down, then, copying Aimeric’s posture. “The cousin was accused of wasting the Council’s time, and sent home in disgrace. After they left, Orlant insisted he wasn't bedding Huet, that Huet had shown up wearing that hat. Huet insisted the Prince had told him everyone would be wearing one, and I realized what had happened.”

“The Prince had orchestrated the whole thing,” Aimeric said slowly, and Jord nodded again.

“He did. And he got the pressure, and the Regent’s men, off our backs. I'd never seen anything like it.”

Aimeric rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He tried to imagine Laurent at fifteen, already clever enough to trick a Councillor’s cousin.

“You were right,” he said at last. “Even then, the Prince was ten times smarter than Nicaise.”

“He had to be. His uncle was already plotting against him.”

Aimeric turned his head, found Jord had copied his position again and was also lying on his back. Aimeric studied his profile for a moment, then said quietly,

“Thanks for telling me that story.”

Jord turned to look back, and they held each other's gaze. “You should get some rest,” Jord said finally. “We've still got a long way to go to the Kingsmeet.”

He rolled onto his other side then, facing the opposite direction. Aimeric stayed on his back, shifting his head to stare at the ceiling. He followed swirls in the wooden beams with his eyes, the way he used to trace the swirling patterns on his ceiling, and eventually it lulled him to sleep.


	8. Endgame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kingsmeet wasn't supposed to end like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we made it!!! ish. there's going to be an epilogue but here's where the fic meets the trilogy ending
> 
> this chapter has an explicit sex scene so be aware of that. 
> 
> today's theme: VENGEANCE
> 
> edit: almost forgot! but I need to thank SteeleStingray for their comment that gave me the idea for Lydos being so prominent in this fic. I think it really added to it, and I can't thank them enough
> 
> also almost forgot: I have no idea what Lydos' medical issues are actually supposed to be, I'm pretty sure it's never actually revealed, so I made something up

They left the next morning, continuing south. Charls the Veretian cloth merchant (the real one) joined their train with his men and his wagons, and as they traveled, it turned out meeting Charls had been an incredible stroke of luck. With his reputation, they no longer had to trick their way through border sentries, merely strolling on through as though nothing was amiss. Aimeric sometimes wondered at the loyalty Laurent had inspired in this merchant after only one meeting, that Charls was throwing in his lot with a group of men who were, essentially, fugitives.

As they went, the men began to bond. The lines between friend and just-until-recent foe began to blur. Aimeric found himself spending a lot of time with Lydos, who often offered to take watch with him. Who also turned out to come from a family of fishermen; it was why, he said, he was so familiar with a trident.

“I’ve never tried throwing a trident,” Aimeric said, the first afternoon of travelling with Charls’ men. “Is it much like a spear?”

They had stopped to take haven in a small copse of trees from the heat; the horses, tethered nearby under the shadiest trees, were still lightly panting, their hides covered in a light sheen of sweat. Laurent was tending to them; as Aimeric idly watched him, he wondered if it was just an excuse to be in the coolest patch of shade. 

“Somewhat.” Lydos leaned back, resting against the tree behind him. They were sitting together under a more dappled piece of shade. Aimeric, having grown up in the south of Vere, was a bit more used to the heat than the men from the north. “The heft is different, and you have to account for the two extra tines. Which means the grip, the way you hold the shaft, has to be different too.” 

“And you’ve been throwing a trident all your life?”

“Essentially, yes.” Idly, Lydos rubbed at his right elbow. “I would use one with my family for fishing, but when I decided I wanted to be a soldier, I started training in its use as a weapon.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen an Akielon use a trident in battle before,” Aimeric said, teasing, and Lydos playfully bumped him with a shoulder.

“It’s mostly used in the arena, but some skilled fighters can use them in the place of spears on the battlefield.” Lydos’ mouth curved, and he added, “Maybe I can teach you sometime.”

“It may not be like a spear,” Aimeric said, in a half brag, “But I’ve been boar hunting before, and I think it should be similar enough that you don’t have to  _ teach _ me.”

Lydos laughed, then, and said, “As soon as I can find a trident for us to practice with, you’ll see how wrong you are.”

That night, Aimeric sat across the fire from Jord and Aktis, the latter being taught how to play dice. Aimeric tried to be subtle in his staring as he watched with a jealous fascination. Dice was a game for lowborn men, and he’d never learned it. He wondered if he could ask Jord to teach him. He eavesdropped, slowly sipping his wine, as Aktis, in return, taught Jord what Aimeric could only assume were very lewd Akielon swears.

He must have been less subtle than he’d thought, because after a time the log beside him shifted with the weight of another presence, and he glanced over to see Damen there.

“Do you want to know what they’re saying?” Damen asked, lip quirked, and Aimeric flushed. 

“Should I want to know?”

“If you ever want to hold your own in an Akielon pub, maybe.” Damen rested his elbows on his knees, shoulders curved forward. Aimeric shifted, uncomfortable. It was the first time Damen had spoken to him since Karthas.

“How’re you holding up?” he asked next, and an old irritation flared.

Aimeric lifted his chin. “I can handle it.”

Damen stared at him, then laughed. It made Aimeric’s flush worse, especially when he said, “You sound just like you did at Nesson.”

“Well! I--” He stopped, fidgeting with his cup. “You were just a slave, then. I thought you were mocking me.”

“No.” Damen leaned to the side, picking up the nearest wineskin. He poured himself a cup, then offered, and Aimeric hesitantly held his own cup out to be refilled. “I was serious. You were an aristocrat keeping up with men who had been doing hard work like that their entire lives. You deserved the compliment.”

Aimeric fiddled further, looking into his wine. Then he downed its contents in one go, while Damen watched in mild surprise.

“That you’d say that, after everything…” Aimeric breathed out through his nose. “I don’t like it, but I’m starting to think Jord was right.” 

“About what?”

Aimeric stood, turning slightly so his words wouldn’t carry across the fire. “That you’re a good man.” A pause, and then: “Which is why I don’t understand what you see in the Prince.”

It was too casual, and Aimeric knew it. Damen wasn’t a slave anymore. He was the rightful King of Akielos. Aimeric couldn’t just talk to him like this, like he was any other soldier. Yet Damen didn’t get angry, or punish Aimeric for his insubordination. His expression was hard to read, all the more difficult for how the flickering fire played over his features.

Eventually, Damen said, “You don’t know him like I do.”

\- - -

On the second day, he was with Lazar, tying their horses up with the others in the dying evening light, when Lazar said, “So you've given up on getting back into Jord’s bed, have you?”

Aimeric, busy with securing the reins, gave an automatic “Hmm?” Then what Lazar had said sunk in, and he turned crimson. There were plenty of things he wanted to ask about that question, but the first one was: “Why do you say that?”

Lazar was giving him that lazy grin of his. Aimeric wanted to hit him. “Well, I noticed you've been getting pretty cozy with Lydos.”

“What?” The fluster faded, and Aimeric laughed. “Lydos? What do you mean?”

Lazar didn't speak, simply inclining his head toward camp, where the other men were working on setting up for the night. Aimeric followed his gaze, spotted Lydos - saw Lydos looking back at him, then smiling, and Aimeric stared. 

“I--you can't seriously be saying--”

“Damn, you really haven't noticed, have you? I guess you were always kind of oblivious.”

A dozen interactions shifted into a new light, and Aimeric had to drag his eyes away lest Lydos get the impression he had, apparently, been hoping for.

Lazar was saying, “You never noticed in the Guard, either. Half the men when we rode out of Arles wanted to fuck you, even the ones you kept picking fights with.”

Aimeric squinted. “That's not true. They wanted to fuck--”

“The Prince?” Lazar kept grinning, infuriatingly. Aimeric really,  _ really _ wanted to hit him. “Sure, but a man can find more than one man attractive at a time. If I remember right, when it came out that Jord had taken you to bed, Rochert sulked a whole day.”

Rochert. Aimeric felt a pang, remembering his loss. “That can't be true.”

“It is true. You just never noticed.” Lazar’s grin slipped a little, then, as he said, “And now you won't believe it, either. You've got to know how pretty you are.”

_ What a lovely boy.  _ Aimeric swallowed, shoved the memory away. “I do know, I guess I just...never considered the men were interested like that, other than--”

“Jord.” Lazar glanced back toward camp. Jord was crouching with Nikandros, talking easily as they set up the campfire. “He may not be an aristocrat, but he's a good-looking man. He'll choose someone else eventually.”

Aimeric looked, too, saw Jord grin at something Nikandros said, and jealousy coiled, hot and harsh, in his gut. “You don't think they're--”

“‘Exchanging glances’? Not that I've seen. Doesn't mean it couldn't happen.”

Aimeric fiddled with the reins he'd tied, tightening them even though they were already tight enough. Lazar watched him, then let out a little  _ whuff  _ of air. 

“Well, nightingale,” he said, digging in his pack, “Whoever you choose, you might need this.”

He tossed something small Aimeric’s way, and Aimeric caught it without thinking. Then he looked at it and blushed.

“ _ Lazar-- _ ”

“Just in case.” He was smirking, and Aimeric’s cheeks burned. He turned the small vial of oil around in his fingers, and, before he thought better of it, stuffed it into his pack.

“And what about you? Aren't you going to need some for Pallas?”

Lazar chuckled. “You think I only brought one?”

Aimeric stared at him. “How much sex did you think you were going to be having?”

“Enough.” Lazar finished up, then patted Aimeric on the shoulder. “One can never be too careful.”

The repetition of the Prince’s words in a scenario like this was so outlandish that Aimeric stood frozen for a moment, watching Lazar return to the others, where he immediately began chatting with Pallas. When his higher functions returned, he shook his head to clear it, then followed, his mind buzzing with everything Lazar had said. 

\- - -

He couldn’t stop thinking about it for the next two days. Everything Lydos did, now - every time he came to sit with Aimeric, or talked to him, or smiled at him - was reflected through the lens Lazar had provided him.  _ You’ve been getting pretty cozy with Lydos. _

Aimeric tried not to let it change things. He did like Lydos, truly; he enjoyed being around him. And sometimes he would see Jord with Nikandros, notice their easy camaraderie, and look to Lydos and wonder what it would be like to bed him. He was attractive, and young, closer to Aimeric’s age than Jord was. Aimeric had a feeling he would be gentle and giving as a lover; the biggest issue would be his own inexperience, considering he’d only ever been with two other men.

The wagon train came upon an inn during the late afternoon that Charls was apparently familiar with, and so they decided to stay the night there rather than camp. The innkeeper was even more fond of Charls than the man in Mellos had been, offering to let his entourage stay in one of the outbuildings that actually had rooms; the main inn itself wasn’t as large, and so they used this building when guests exceeded capacity. The rooms were simple - a bed, a desk, a chair, and a lamp. There were enough for each soldier to have his own. 

Sleeping on a real bed was always an exciting event for Aimeric. The inn’s beds were plain, yet a cursory press of his hand against the mattress showed that they were still softer than a barracks bunk. Aimeric couldn’t wait to wake up without the stiffness in his back a bedroll on hard ground gave him.

They ate dinner together in the inn itself; Charls’ party, along with Laurent and Damen, were in a side room for more elevated guests, while the soldiers ate in the main hall. It was a companionable night, with drinking and stories, as the last few nights among them had been. Aimeric glanced toward Jord, deep in conversation with Aktis, then at Lydos, who was bending his elbow for a thoughtful-looking Paschal. He returned his attention to his dinner. The next time he looked up, it was to see Lazar, across from him, watching while he ate. When their eyes met Lazar winked at him.

The men all left the hall around the same time, their bellies full and thirsts sated. Each man retired to his own separate room to prepare for bed. 

Aimeric, once he closed the door to his room, turned and leaned back against it. The vial of oil Lazar had given him was in his pack. He stared at where it sat, open, on the desk. He stared at it for a long time.

Changing into the undershirt and pants he slept in didn’t take long, and he made sure to slip the vial into his pocket before stepping out into the hall. He had been there when the men chose their rooms, and he knew where each one would be. He knew where Lydos’ room was, in relation to his own, and Jord’s. 

Taking a deep breath, he padded softly down the hall, two doors to the left. His heart beat so loudly he thought for sure someone would hear him. Raising his hand, he curled it and let his knuckles rap against the door in three gentle knocks. 

When it opened, Jord stopped upon seeing who it was. He, too, was in his undershirt and pants. Despite having seen him in Akielon armor all day, Aimeric was entranced by the skin exposed at his throat, his open collar trailing laces.

There was a long moment where Jord only looked at Aimeric, as if wondering if this was real or not, before he said, “Yes?”

“Can I talk to you?” Aimeric asked. He tried to keep his breathing under control, wondered if Jord could see how nervous he was.

Jord hesitated, hand still on the door, before he nodded and stepped aside. “Yeah. Come on in.”

Aimeric did, briefly closed his eyes to steady himself as Jord closed the door behind them. And remained standing in front of it, when Aimeric turned around to face him.

And then Aimeric realized he did not, in fact, know what he wanted to say.

“I,” he tried. “I, well.” He swallowed, tried again. “I...appreciate your friendship.” 

“I appreciate yours too,” Jord said, slowly.

“But,” Aimeric said, and saw Jord tense. He almost stopped there, except he’d come this far, and he was going to do this if it killed him. “But...that’s not all I want.”

Jord was silent. Waiting. Aimeric pressed on. “I want what we had,” he confessed. “Before--I want what we had. I want, I want--”

He was starting to babble, and so he cut it off by blurting the first thing that came to mind: “I want you to kiss me.”

The silence stretched between them. Aimeric thought his heart might burst free of his chest with how quickly it was beating, how hard it pounded against his ribs. He was no longer in control of his breathing; it had quickened as he spoke, and now he stood there, raw and exposed, quietly panting like a horse left out in the heat.

“Aimeric, I...” Jord began. His voice was rough, in a way that was much more obvious than what Aimeric had thought he’d heard at Karthas. It tugged at something in him, and while Jord struggled to find a response, Aimeric was moving.

There were only a few paces between them, and he crossed them quickly. While Jord stood there, frozen, Aimeric moved in close, took his face in his hands, and pulled him into a kiss. 

He felt Jord’s shock. Felt how he didn’t kiss back. Felt Jord’s palms press flat against his chest, as if he were going to push Aimeric away. He held on, willing everything he’d been trying to say into the press of his lips, the way his hands cradled Jord’s jaw. The idea that Jord would shove him off was breaking him and he kept kissing anyway, needing Jord to know he meant what he’d said.

And then he felt when it shifted. Jord’s lips parted over Aimeric’s, and instead of pushing, his hands fisted in the thin fabric of Aimeric’s undershirt, pulling him closer.

It wasn’t the sort of kiss he was used to, when it came to Jord. The hunger was still there, but it was no longer slow and savoring. Jord kissed him aggressively, possessively, and Aimeric was consumed by it, curling his fingers in Jord’s hair, pressing against him when Jord’s hands moved to his waist.

They parted, and Aimeric had only a brief view of Jord’s face, the lust in his dark eyes, before he was pushing Aimeric, pushing him until his back hit the wall. He gasped, part shock, part arousal, and then Jord was on him again, pressing him to the plaster. Aimeric’s senses were filled with him and he was dizzy with it, clutching desperately, the sensation of Jord’s body flush against his own driving all thought from his mind.

Jord pulled away and Aimeric made a noise of disappointment, leaning after him, until his movement was halted as his undershirt was dragged off of him. Jord’s hands pressed flat against his chest again, this time to pin him to the wall, and Aimeric couldn’t help the way his eyelids fluttered and his mouth opened on a moan. He heard Jord make a bitten-off sound before he felt lips on his neck, and then teeth, and the sharpness of it had him pulling so tightly at the material of Jord’s shirt he nearly ripped it.

Jord nipped at his skin a second time and Aimeric practically whimpered. Twined together like this, he felt the shudder that ran through Jord’s body in response.

Jord pulled back again, and Aimeric hissed. He needed Jord to stop doing that, he  _ needed- _ -his thought process stalled when Jord dragged his own shirt up and off, an unintentionally arousing display, and Aimeric’s mouth went dry.

Their eyes locked, and for a second neither did anything. The room was filled with the sounds of their breathing, Jord’s low, ragged breaths and Aimeric’s quicker bursts. Then Jord licked his lips and rasped, “Turn around.”

Aimeric immediately obeyed, putting his back to Jord, hands on the wall as he leaned forward and let his forehead rest against the plaster. Nothing happened, at first, and his fingers curled. He felt wound tight, waiting for Jord to touch him, to speak, to do anything - so much so that, when Jord kissed his bare shoulder, he made a desperate noise, arching his back.

Jord swore and abandoned whatever slower approach he had planned, moving closer until Aimeric could feel Jord’s body all along his own, arousal heightened by the hard lines of Jord’s chest pressed against his back. 

“When I saw you in the Akielon armor the first time,” Jord said, breath hot against Aimeric’s ear, hands sliding down his stomach, “I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

Aimeric moaned, pushed back against him. “I couldn’t look at you at first,” he confessed, lost in the moment. “I wanted to touch you too much.” 

Despite what he’d said, he wasn’t the one touching. Aimeric rocked his hips as Jord’s fingers worked at the laces of his pants, the brushes of fingertips over fabric simultaneously too much and too little. Once the laces were undone Jord was reaching to touch him with one hand while the other began pushing his pants down, and it was a miracle at all that Aimeric remembered to say, “Wait!”

Jord stiffened, and began withdrawing, until Aimeric grabbed his wrist and kept his hand where it was. “I just,” he explained, breathlessly, scrabbling in the pocket of his sagging pants, “I needed to get this.”

He pressed the vial of oil back into Jord’s free hand, and risked glancing over his shoulder. Jord was holding it in his palm, staring at it, expression open in a soft disbelief Aimeric had never seen from him. 

A quiet, shaky laugh, and Jord asked, “Were you--were you really that confident this would happen?”

Aimeric blushed, in that way that spread from his chest up his neck to his cheeks. “I was hoping,” he said, the words edged, defensive. “But I--I didn’t know--Lazar gave it to me.”

Silence, and then another chuckle, more genuine, as Jord’s forehead came to rest against Aimeric’s shoulder.

“Good old Lazar,” he breathed. Aimeric felt his muscles tightening, that worry that he’d made a mistake surfacing, until Jord’s thumb brushed over the tip of his cock and he melted, pushing up into the touch. “Remind me,” Jord was saying, thumb moving in unhurried circles, “to thank him later.”

“Yes,” Aimeric moaned, though with how Jord was touching him, he would be hard pressed to say what he was agreeing to. Even more so when he felt Jord’s fingers, oiled and slick, begin to press inside him. It was as good as he remembered, better, even, and he pushed his pants down to pool at his ankles so he could shift his legs apart and press back against Jord’s hand.

He'd been impatient before, in their lovemaking. It had nothing on now, as Jord slowly worked his muscles loose and he rocked back against him, tried to get those fingers deeper, near begging as he told Jord to go faster. He heard Jord’s breath hitch when he whined and curved his back, heard the groan in his words when Jord said, “Aimeric, you're going to kill me.”

“You're going to kill me first if you don't get inside of me soon,” Aimeric shot back, and he felt Jord’s huff of amusement on his skin.

He wasn't kept waiting much longer. Aimeric arched when Jord began to press into him, one hand sliding up the wall as if there would be purchase somewhere above him. He felt, with distant surprise, the brush of Jord’s pants against his legs, realized with a heady thrill that Jord hadn't even taken the time to push them off. It made him reach back with his other hand, scrabble for a grip on Jord’s hip to try and pull him closer, deeper. He couldn’t get enough, he needed more, now, right now, he’d never needed anything as much as this--

This wasn't like how they used to have sex, either. Jord tried to start slow, but Aimeric wouldn't have it. He whimpered and moaned until Jord was pressing him roughly against the wall and taking him hard, and Aimeric had to release his grip to bite down on his fist in an attempt to muffle himself. It was good, it was so good, better than he remembered, and when Jord shifted his angle and hit something inside him Aimeric nearly screamed.

He heard Jord’s deep groan. Those lips were on his neck again, teeth grazing along the skin of his shoulder. Aimeric’s other hand went to Jord’s hair, and when he tugged Jord  _ growled _ , sending a flash of heat to his belly. The curl of Jord’s fingers on his hips was almost bruisingly tight but Aimeric didn't care, that made it better, somehow.

He reached down to touch himself, at some point, head full of a thick haze of lust, and the combination of it, Jord inside him, his own clumsy, distracted strokes on his cock, quickly did him in. When he came, the fist in his mouth barely stifled his shout. 

“Aimeric,” Jord breathed, helplessly, against his ear, and Aimeric shuddered. Whenever Jord said his name from now on he would hear it like that, a soft, longing sound. He shuddered a second time when he felt Jord push in deep and hold himself there, pressing his face into Aimeric’s neck as his body jerked through its own climax.

They stood there a while, panting. Aimeric was practically draped against the wall; his knees were too weak to support him, and it was only through that and Jord’s hold that he was still standing. After a while, Jord lifted his head, softly kissed the skin beneath Aimeric’s ear and murmured, “Let's get cleaned up.”

After, when they lay together in Jord’s bed, Aimeric’s cheek resting on Jord’s chest, Aimeric felt happier than he had in weeks. He thought he might be glowing with it, and no matter how he tried to keep from smiling, he couldn't.

“You know,” he said quietly, as Jord’s fingers stroked lazily through his hair, “I missed this.”

“The sex?” Jord asked, humor in his voice.

“No. Being with you after.”

The fingers stilled, and Aimeric felt heat creeping up his neck. He didn't know why he'd said that, though he didn't try to take it back, because it was true. So instead he bit his lip and waited to see what Jord would say.

After a moment, he felt a hand on his cheek, gently tilting his head up. Jord studied his face, then smiled and kissed his forehead. “I missed that, too.”

Relief made him giddy, and Aimeric shifted up to kiss that smile. This time, it was like his memories: slow, deep, unhurried by lust. 

"I keep thinking I'm dreaming,” he said, and felt Jord’s chuckle against his lips.

“You're not.”

“No.” Aimeric’s smile turned coy, and he pushed himself up. Jord quirked a brow, his smile questioning, until Aimeric straddled his hips. They'd stripped their pants completely while cleaning up, and so Aimeric could enjoy the sensation of skin against skin as he teasingly rocked against Jord. 

“Again?” Jord asked, hands falling to Aimeric’s hips. He already sounded a bit breathless. “Already?”

“Can't keep up?” Aimeric asked, and spread his hands flat on Jord’s chest as he ground down against him. Jord let out a long breath, and Aimeric could already feel his arousal stirring.

“I didn't say that.”

“Good.” Aimeric grinned, then leaned down to give Jord a kiss, murmuring against his lips, “Because I'm not done with you yet.”

\- - -

They woke up early, the habit of trained soldiers, and lay around for a bit. Knowing Charls’ men, they had a small window of time before they needed to get up and begin preparing the wagons to leave.

Jord traced the marks left on Aimeric’s hand by his own teeth. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really.” Aimeric had his head on Jord’s shoulder this time, his hand resting on Jord’s stomach. “I wasn't really worried about that at the time, anyway. I don't think these walls are very thick.”

He could hear the grin in Jord’s voice when he said, “What, you don't want Lazar to know you were making good use of his gift?”

“Not like  _ that! _ ”

They did have to get up eventually, and Aimeric needed to get his things, so, reluctantly, he dragged himself out of Jord’s arms.

“I'll see you in the stables,” he said, then gave Jord one last kiss before leaving.

He slipped out of Jord’s room into the quiet of the hallway. There was no one else around; the other men were likely just getting up themselves, quickly wiping down before getting dressed for the day. Aimeric smiled a little to himself and carefully, quietly, closed Jord’s door behind him.

As another door, further down the hall, opened.

Aimeric didn't move fast enough, because he was still in front of Jord’s door, hand on the doorknob, when the other man emerged and saw him. It was Lazar, because of course it was, though something seemed off, that wasn't his room, that was--

\--that was Pallas’ room. 

They locked eyes, Aimeric with his hand on the doorknob to Jord’s room, Lazar partially out of Pallas’. He saw Lazar, slowly, begin to grin, and could feel his mouth mirroring it.

“So,” Lazar said, closing the door softly behind him. “Looks like you took my advice.”

“Maybe I did.” Aimeric stepped away from Jord’s door. “Looks like you finally made your move.”

“Maybe I did.” Lazar had to pass him to get back to his room, and as they neared each other, he said, “You're welcome for the oil.”

Aimeric swatted at him, and he dodged it easily, dancing back in to ruffle Aimeric’s curls. He ignored Aimeric’s indignant “ _ Hey! _ ” and strolled back to his own room, walking with the easy gait of a man well sated. 

It was probably how Aimeric was walking, too, as he returned to his room to prepare. He didn't stop smiling all morning. 

It was like before, and it wasn’t. Jord still wasn’t very public with his affection, yet every casual brush of fingers over Aimeric’s arm, or a gentle touch to his back, or a smile offered across the campfire, was worth treasuring. The difference was that sometimes Jord would look a little troubled. Aimeric wasn’t sure why, and Jord didn’t offer an explanation, so Aimeric let it be. He was, in truth, a little afraid of bringing it up and finding out it traced back to Orlant again, potentially leading to an end for this fragile, wonderful thing between them.

Charls’ train remained with them for two more days. The first night after the inn, Aimeric thrilled in dragging his bedroll over beside Jord’s, in falling asleep next to him with their fingertips just barely intertwined. The second they were to camp on the field in which Kingsmeet sat; and before that, during the hottest hours of the day, they stopped at a farmhouse to wait out the heat.

The lunch they were served was undoubtedly Akielon, yet it was also delicious. Aimeric found himself outside, looking out over the expanse of Akielos before them, the land sloping down to glittering sea in the far distance. He was eating his last piece of crisp Akielon bread, dipped in oil and topped with a thick slice of cheese, and though it was hot in the sun, he didn’t mind it. Unlike Laurent, perched beneath a tree off to his right, taking shelter in one of the few cool shady spots around the farmhouse.

He almost missed the soft footsteps in the grass until Lydos was right beside him, arms crossing over his chest as he looked out over his homeland.

“That physician of yours is brilliant,” Lydos said, after a period of silence. “Did I tell you that he helped me figure out why my arm is so sore all the time?”

“No, you didn’t.” Aimeric glanced at said arm. “What was wrong?”

“It’s something with the...joint? I think that’s what he said. Because of my trident throwing. He said that the repetitive motion, after a while, would make it sore, then gave me some ointment for the pain.”

“Oh.” Aimeric chewed thoughtfully. “Huh. Well, he is pretty smart, that’s certain.”

The silence fell again, Aimeric returning his gaze to the expanse of land before them. He saw the ocean, just beyond Ios, and wondered how it would feel to march into the capital city of Akielos.

“You know,” Aimeric said after a bit, swallowing the last morsel of bread, “I’ve never actually been to the sea.”

“ _ What? _ ” Lydos was incredulous, eyebrows knit at the center, grinning in disbelief as if Aimeric were playing a prank on him. “But didn’t you grow up in Fortaine? It’s so close!”

“I know.” Aimeric shrugged one shoulder. “My father used to take my elder brothers, and my sisters, sometimes. But by the time I was old enough to go, he’d stopped. Too busy with the court, he said.”

Lydos was silent a moment, and Aimeric almost felt guilty for bringing it up. He’d come to terms with it a long time ago, after all, and he didn’t want to ruin the good mood. What he wasn’t expecting was the brush of Lydos’ hand against his own, or how Lydos said, “When we get to Ios, after Damianos is on the throne again, I’ll take you to see it. Ios is right on the water, it would be an afternoon trip, at most.”

Aimeric carefully drew his hand away, letting it curl around his opposite forearm. “While I’d really like that,” he said, keeping his tone level, “I’m not sure...it would be a good idea.”

He meant to look up at Lydos, meet his eyes so he could give his gentle rejection without shying away from it; instead, he caught sight of Jord in the distance, just past Lydos’ confused expression, inspecting the wagons one last time. Lydos turned, following Aimeric’s line of sight.

“...Ah.” Lydos laughed a little, dropping his gaze and bowing his head. “I thought I saw you making eyes at him.”

“I wasn’t making  _ eyes _ \--” Aimeric began, then stopped, because he certainly had been. Clearing his throat, he said instead, “I do like talking to you. I’ve never gotten along so well with an Akielon before.”

Lydos was still looking at the ground, but Aimeric could see his slow grin. “Not even with the King? He seems fond of you. Didn’t even make you prostrate yourself after being so brazen about his relationship with the Prince.”

Aimeric made a choked noise. “You heard that?”

“Parts of it.” Lydos finally raised his head, and met Aimeric’s gaze. “I like talking to you, too.” He paused. “Obviously.”

Aimeric’s lip curved. “Then...maybe we could still be friends? Even if you don’t get to bed me?”

“Hmm.” Lydos pretended to think about it. “I’m not sure if it would be worth it without that…”

Aimeric hip-checked him, and Lydos stumbled, letting out a surprised laugh. After that, they stood on the grass and talked, Lydos telling Aimeric all about the sea, how it looked on certain days, during storms, how it smelled. They bumped shoulders, teased each other, and Aimeric didn’t feel the awkward tension that had risen in him ever since Lazar pointed out Lydos’ glances.  It turned out to be a relaxing afternoon overall, as they thanked Charls’ party and saw him off, then made their way to the field of Kingsmeet. 

Which was nice, because they knew the next day would not be very relaxing at all.

\- - -

“Do you really think they can do it?” Aimeric asked.

Several of the men sat around the charred remains of last night’s fire, all of them looking out over the field at where Kingsmeet rose above the grass. They were to sit and keep watch over the camp until Laurent and Damen returned that night, to, if everything went according to plan, retrieve Jokaste and make the exchange for her child the next day. There wasn’t much for them to do but wait; one could only polish his armor so many times, and considering Akielon armor was mostly leather, that wasn’t many.

“Of course they can.” Jord sat beside Aimeric, their knees brushing. “The Prince always finds a way.”

“But if what you’ve said about the Regent is true…” Pallas chewed his lip. “He made an alliance with Kastor right under the King’s nose. What other trick might he have up his sleeve this time?”

It wasn’t a very productive conversation to have, and Aimeric knew it. He shouldn’t have started it, that much was clear from the tension in the men around him, the tight, withdrawn look on Nikandros’ face, the nervous tics of Pallas, the quiet worry in Jord. But he couldn’t help himself. He was worried, too, and he needed to do something more than simply sit on it. 

“The Regent is a wily bastard,” Lazar said in a low voice. He had, Aimeric noticed, subtly rested a hand on the log between him and Pallas, and was stroking little lines into Pallas’ leg with his thumb. “If anyone can beat him, it’s the Prince, but he won’t make it easy.”

“I’m more worried about the King.” Nikandros slouched forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together in front of him. “Kingsmeet is a sacred place. If Damen gets too angry and draws his sword…”

They were all quiet at the thought. Kingsmeet, Aimeric had learned, had specific rules passed down for generations. Enemies could meet there without fear, because if a sword was so much as drawn, the man who had drawn it found his life forfeit.

“I don’t understand that,” Aimeric said. Nikandros gave him a look that neared challenging, and he rolled his eyes. “I understand the rule of non-violence. What I  _ don’t  _ understand is why they don’t take your weapons at the door. Why even risk it?”

“It’s meant as a test of moral strength,” Nikandros explained. “The Kings who meet there must show their restraint by keeping their swords sheathed.”

Aimeric digested this. Then he said, “That’s a bit stupid, isn’t it?”

The Akielons reacted as one, stiffening and glaring. Even Lydos, his new friend, looked affronted at that. Meanwhile, Lazar looked like he was fighting a smirk, and Aimeric knew Jord well enough by now to sense his reluctant agreement.

“It’s  _ tradition _ ,” Nikandros said firmly.

“So is the King of Vere consummating his marriage in front of the Council, but I know none of you like that.” He could also sense Jord’s ‘please stop talking’ vibes. He didn’t stop. “So I’m allowed to dislike this one.”

The mention of that particular custom was enough, at least, to defuse the tension. Nikandros sat up, looking somewhat horrified, while Lydos angled himself to face Aimeric better as he said, “The King of Vere doing  _ what? _ ” Only Pallas didn’t look surprised. Aimeric gave him the most subtle of nods, trying to convey that he wasn’t going to reveal the reason why Pallas might know about that particular tradition.

Arguing about cultural customs kept them occupied for a good chunk of time, and despite the initial tension over the traditions of Kingsmeet, Aimeric was surprised at how... _ normal  _ the rest of the conversation went. No one grew angry, not truly; no one threatened violence, or went for their swords, as they might have when the armies first came together at Fortaine. They debated, of course, but the atmosphere remained companionable. At one point Pallas was passionately arguing the reasoning behind why Akielon wrestling was done naked, and when Lazar snaked an arm around his waist and said, “Seeing you was a good enough reason for me,” Pallas turned crimson while the rest of them laughed and teased him.

The mood didn’t stay easy. As the afternoon wore on, and Damen and Laurent failed to appear, the men grew restless. Evening fell, and it got worse; they couldn’t sit together around the fire, not as they had been in the nights preceding. Nikandros moved off to the edge of camp to practice his sword work; Lydos and Aktis sparred. Aimeric didn’t see where Lazar and Pallas disappeared off to, though he wondered if they were taking out their frustrations in a different type of physical exercise. He did see Jord, standing at the edge of camp in the growing darkness, staring off at the foreboding structure that was Kingsmeet. 

He came up beside him, standing in a way that he could half lean against Jord without making it obvious.

“The Prince will find a way,” Aimeric said quietly.

Jord didn’t say anything. They stood together, watching the soft glow of light that was Kingsmeet. Aimeric startled slightly when he felt Jord’s arm come around him and pull him closer.

“What if he doesn’t,” Jord said, just as quiet, and the shock of that was stronger.

“He has to,” Aimeric protested, automatically, unthinkingly. “He always twists his way out of situations like this. You’ve seen him do it, I’ve seen him do it, we all have--”

“That was before.”

Aimeric stopped. He looked up at Jord’s face, hidden by shadow. They were outside of the firelight, with only the moon and stars providing any illumination. He asked, “Before what?”

“Before…” Jord sighed, curled his arm tighter around Aimeric’s waist. He shifted and rested his forehead on Aimeric’s curls. “Before Damen. Before he cared about someone more than himself.”

That didn’t make sense. “Just because they’re fucking,” Aimeric began, “Doesn’t mean--”

“Yes, it does.” Jord didn’t move away, and his voice was soft, barely above a whisper. For Aimeric’s ears alone. “You were in the Guard at Arles. Not as long as the rest of us, but you know he never took anyone to his bed. He never let anyone in like that. Until Damen.” 

Aimeric did know. That didn’t mean he could wrap his mind around this. “So you’re saying Laurent has given up on his vendetta against his uncle because he’s in love with the King of Akielos?”

“No.” Jord’s breath was warm against his skin, and Aimeric, despite how serious this topic was, found himself turning his head to nuzzle against Jord’s cheek. They stayed like that for a moment, drawing comfort from each other, until Jord added, “He’ll never give up on beating his uncle. But I think he’s going to be blinded by Damen, and make a mistake. Like he did in Arles, with that whipping.”

Aimeric remembered that day, when the Regent had publicly stripped Laurent of his lands as punishment for nearly killing his ‘gift’ from Akielos. At the time, he’d felt smug, happy to see the Prince embarrassed in front of the court. Now, he wrapped his arms around Jord and held tight.

“The Prince will find a way,” Aimeric said, stubbornly. 

He pulled away after a moment. Jord looked slightly lost, confused that Aimeric would leave the embrace, until Aimeric grabbed his hand and started dragging him back to camp.

“There’s nothing we can do now.” That aristocratic arrogance reared its head, his voice commanding and jaw set, and Jord fell in naturally. “First watch is taken care of. We can’t stare at Kingsmeet all night willing the Prince to come back. What we  _ can _ do is get some rest, and prepare ourselves for his return, whenever it is.”

Their bedrolls were already set out, an activity partaken far earlier in the day than necessary out of restlessness. Aimeric led Jord to where theirs were lying together, and pulled him down. It took some maneuvering to get Jord onto the bedroll, onto his back, and he was dazed enough not to protest; which gave Aimeric ample time to curl half on top of him, trapping him there.

“Don’t worry,” Aimeric said, in a way that was more an order than anything. “Whatever happens, we always planned on marching into Ios. If Laurent is in danger, we’ll bring the combined forces of Vere and Akielos down on the Regent’s head, and we’ll save him.”

Jord drew in a shaky breath, let it out slowly. It was then that his arms came around Aimeric. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“I am,” Aimeric said firmly. As if he could will a positive outcome into existence by speaking it. As if, with night falling around them and each passing hour showing no sign of Laurent or Damen, the feeling of wrongness didn’t build to a point where Aimeric felt that half the camp would prefer laying siege to Kingsmeet itself rather than wait here another moment.

\- - -

Damen returned just after dawn.

He wasn’t alone. Most of the camp was already awake, too skittish to have slept well at all. Aimeric had checked in on his mother in the gray twilight of pre-dawn, speaking to her through the window of the wagon she and Guion had slept in, both pretending his father wasn’t right there listening to them. He had been looking over his horse when the sound of hooves reached them across the field, and everyone stopped to watch the approach of far more men than expected.

Damen was easy to spot, as the horses grew closer, a dark, defiant smudge against the early morning mist. Soon it became apparent that his hands were behind his back, and from his posture, they were likely bound.

It also became apparent that Laurent was not with them.

The men gathered as those that had brought Damen - sentries from Kingsmeet, Nikandros informed them, looking pale - threw him into the dirt at their feet, and departed without a word. Nikandros was at his side in an instant, slicing the bonds that kept his hands together. Nikandros said something in a low voice that Aimeric couldn’t catch, but Damen’s response, intended or not, was easily heard by those gathered.

Laurent was not with Damen. Laurent was with the Regent.

It was Jord who stepped forward first. Aimeric could see the tension all along his body, words clipped as he said, “You left him there? You saved your own life, and left him with his uncle?” Anger, stronger than he was used to, gripped Aimeric so tightly it felt like a hand wrapped around his throat. He couldn’t speak, could only stare at Damen kneeling in the dirt. He felt betrayed, somehow, a raw wound he hadn’t expected as he saw Damen, alive and whole and here, knowing he'd willingly left Laurent in the Regent’s hands. 

Damen was staring at him. Arms unbound, Nikandros helped his king stand, and then Damen came straight for Aimeric, ignoring Jord completely.

Aimeric, who stiffened and glared when Damen asked, “Did you know?”

“Did I know  _ what? _ ” Aimeric spat.

“Did you know what the Regent had done to him? Did you know he'd--like you, he'd--”

Aimeric had no idea what Damen was asking, until, suddenly, he did. The world tilted. His breathing went ragged, and he stumbled back a step without realizing. Hands caught him, kept him upright - Jord, he realized distantly. It didn't matter. He couldn't breathe. 

“The Regent…” he said, roughly. “The Regent...to the Prince...to his  _ nephew… _ ” Suddenly so much about Laurent made sense. How he wouldn't take a pet. How he'd known, immediately, why Aimeric would want to betray him. The anger came back, a surging tidal wave, as Aimeric pushed away from Jord to  _ shove _ Damen. 

Immediately, Nikandros was there, throwing Aimeric back against one of the wagons as Aimeric yelled, “You found out what he'd done and you  _ left Laurent with him?! _ ”

Damen moved quickly, too; he grabbed Nikandros, pulling him away while Jord grabbed for Aimeric to keep him from lunging again. The other Akielons had sprung into action, flanking their King. Lydos had a complicated look on his face as Aimeric hissed and struggled, tears stinging his eyes. All of his court manners were abandoned, his rage taking control. Damen didn't order his men to do anything; his expression was painful, guilt etched into every line on his face. That, above it all, had Aimeric stilling, sagging against Jord.

And then Jord spat, “You coward.”

Aimeric froze. Nikandros looked like he wanted to shove Jord this time, instead, but Damen’s grip on his shoulder kept him at bay.

“You will not speak that way to our King,” Nikandros said anyway, voice sharp. Aimeric glanced up at Jord, saw how thunderous he looked.

Damen saw it, too. “Let him be,” he said. “Let him be. He is loyal. You would have reacted the same if Laurent had come back alone.”

“He wouldn’t have come back alone.” Aimeric straightened in Jord’s hold, leaning carefully back against him, both to provide comfort and to keep Jord from lunging at Damen himself. Aimeric could hear how strained Jord sounded, how much control he was spending on staying still. “If you think that, you don’t know him.”

Damen’s hand on Nikandros’ shoulder dropped, and their positions reversed; now it was Nikandros who was holding on to Damen, for a completely different reason. Aimeric saw the regret in Damen’s face. He steeled himself against it.

“Stop it,” Nikandros said, looking between Jord and Damen. “Can’t you see he’s--”

“What’s going to happen to him?” Jord interrupted. 

“He’ll be killed,” Damen replied, without hesitation. Aimeric’s blood went cold; behind him, Jord stiffened. They’d known that would be the answer, they’d all known it - Aimeric could see it in their faces, in how pale Lazar was, in the way Nikandros furrowed his brow. They’d known and yet hearing it from Damen made it more real.

Now he had the death of two princes on his hands.  _ Prince-killer. _

“There will be a trial,” Damen continued. “He’ll be branded a traitor. His name will be dragged through the mud. When it’s done, they’ll kill him.”

Aimeric felt numb.  _ He’ll be killed. _ His thoughts swirled. There had to be something they could do, some way they could stop this. Laurent would never let himself get into a situation like this without some sort of plan, without some way to slither out of the consequences--

He was vaguely aware that Jord was holding his arms, so tightly that it hurt. Aimeric didn’t stop him.

“Damianos. Listen to me. If he is taken to the palace, then he is gone.” Nikandros was speaking, as if he and Damen were alone, as if they weren’t surrounded by the remaining members of their party. Except that nobody spoke, nobody interrupted, so they might as well have been. “You can’t fight your way in single-handed. Even if you made it past the walls, you’d never make it out again. Every soldier in Ios is loyal to Kastor or to the Regent.”

“You’re right,” Damen said. His expression had changed, from pain and guilt to heavy resignation. “I can’t fight my way in. I know what I have to do.” 

\- - -

It was a terrible plan.

“We’re really letting him go on his own?” Aimeric hissed, as they watched Damen’s horse gradually become smaller and smaller in the distance. 

It was early morning, and Damen was riding for Ios. Alone. He’d ordered them to camp outside the city and then left, refusing any help, refusing to let any of them go with him. He kept saying that Laurent thought he was alone, that Damen was going to prove he wasn’t, but how did it help if  _ Damen _ insisted on doing this himself too?

Nikandros didn’t look any happier about it than Aimeric sounded; his jaw was tight, teeth clenched. “The King ordered us to remain behind,” he said, stiffly. “And so we will.”

Aimeric almost wanted go anyway, to say that Damen wasn’t  _ his _ King, Laurent was, and he didn’t have to do what Damen told him to. Yet he stayed, sticking by Jord and Lazar, the three of them keeping to themselves away from the Akielons. 

At one point, while they sat together, time crawling by so slowly it felt as if it had stopped, Lazar asked, “What did Damen mean, Aimeric, when he asked you if you knew?”

Aimeric stared into the cup of water in his hands. He felt Jord’s eyes on him too. Jord must have figured it out, when Damen asked. Jord must know. 

“I don’t think Damen was in his right mind at the time,” Jord said, giving Aimeric an out, protecting him. He’d always been so protective of him. A lump rose in Aimeric’s throat, and he forced himself to swallow around it. 

“The Prince,” Aimeric began, carefully, despite what Jord had tried to do. “Likely would prefer me not to say.”

“Why not?” Lazar had always been a gossip, and even now he scented that there was something here, something he didn’t know and very much wanted to. “If it’s about the Regent trying to kill the Prince, we all knew that. He’s been trying since the Prince was young.”

Anger rose in him, suddenly. Anger, his most faithful companion, drowning out the numbness and fear and restlessness that had filled him ever since Damen left.

“You really want to know?” Aimeric asked, harshly. Lazar blinked. 

“Aimeric,” That was Jord. “You don’t have to--” 

“He fucked him.” The words hung in the air, venomous and sharp. “The Regent fucked his nephew when he was still a boy. Is that what you wanted to know?”

“Aimeric,” Jord said, again, more firmly. He ignored it; he was watching Lazar, whose eyes were wide, mouth hanging slightly open. 

“But,” Lazar said, slowly, “Why would you know about that?” 

He’d been proud of it, once. Proud of how the Regent had chosen him, of how beautiful the Regent thought he was. Now Aimeric felt those memories weigh him down, like shackles. Shame made his face burn; he threw the words out of him anyway, used them like weapons. If he had to hurt, he wanted to someone else to hurt, too.

“Because,” Aimeric snarled, grip tightening on his cup. “He did the same thing to me.” 

He pushed himself up, then, and left, ignoring Jord calling his name. The shock and pity on Lazar’s face were too much, and he instantly regretted admitting that. He shouldn’t have answered. He should have walked away as soon as Lazar asked. He should’ve listened to Jord--

He was standing on the edge of camp, staring off at Ios, when he felt the brush of fingers against his arm. Startled, he whirled to see his mother standing there. Her face was white, and there were bags under her eyes; he knew she’d been having trouble sleeping, that she was afraid of where they were and what could happen now that Laurent had been taken. Yet here she was, stepping closer to him, draping an arm around his waist, leaning into his side. She was scared and yet she was here to try and give him comfort.

Aimeric sighed, putting his arm around her and gently squeezing. “It’ll be alright,” he said, partially for her, partially for himself.

Loyse rested her head against his shoulder. They stood together, looking out at Ios. After a long, comfortable silence, she said softly, “The Prince is going to send for me. I’m going to make this right.”

Aimeric frowned, looked down at her. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.” She got up on her tiptoes, then, pressing her lips to his cheek.

\- - -

His mother was right about one thing - men were sent from Ios to collect them, a full day after Damen had originally ridden out. What she was wrong about was why. They’d come for Guion, not for her, and the summons had come from Damen, not the Prince. 

It didn’t really matter, in the end. They were all going anyway. No one wanted to stay behind, not when the lives of two Kings hung in the balance. 

Lazar had been quiet, ever since Aimeric’s confession, but as they were preparing to leave he stopped by where Aimeric was saddling up his horse. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Lazar clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“We’re going to make him pay,” he said in a low voice. “For everything he’s done.”

The Prince was on trial, Damen was at the mercy of his half-brother, and they had no idea what would come of Guion’s testimony. Yet, despite all of that, Aimeric found himself nodding.

They would make the Regent pay.

\- - -

It felt like it took forever to reach the palace of Ios, and also no time at all. Aimeric couldn’t slow the beating of his heart as they rode into the city, escorted by Kastor’s men. This was it, the end of everything they’d been working for since Laurent left Arles. It seemed as if he’d aged by years since then, that he couldn’t possibly be only nineteen. So much had happened in the past few months.

They gathered in the hall of the palace. They all stood together as Guion was brought forward, Aimeric at his mother’s side, Jord, Lazar, and even Lydos near him. He could see Damen, back straight despite the heavy irons on his wrists. He could see Laurent, dirty, disheveled, exposed in his chiton before the Council and the Regent and Kastor, yet still holding himself with cold pride. Even now, with iron weighing down his arms, Laurent could face the accusations thrown at him by his uncle. Aimeric stood straighter, taking a deep breath. He didn’t look at the Regent, seated on a throne beside Kastor. He didn’t look at the little boy seated beside the Regent, because if he did, his strength would fail him. He told himself, instead, that with his father’s testimony, they would finally expose the Regent for the monster he truly was.

Except, of course, that wasn’t what happened at all.

“Laurent of Vere is guilty of every charge brought against him,” his father said, and the hall erupted. 

“You  _ liar! _ ” Aimeric was so enraged he thought he might choke on it, every muscle taut, nails digging into his palms as his hands fisted at his sides. He wanted to march right up to Guion and shake him; his mother’s hand, gentle on his arm, kept him still.

“How can he say this?” he asked, looking to her while Guion went on, digging Laurent’s grave deeper and deeper. “How can he lie like this? After the Regent--after what he  _ did _ \--”

“Trust in your future King,” Loyse said, her eyes bright. Aimeric stared at her, at the sureness in her expression, and slowly let the tension ease out of him despite the buzz of the hall. Damen, he could see, had no such reassurances, and Aimeric flinched when his struggling was met with a blow against the back of his legs that had Damen falling, guards pinning him in place.

The Council had decided. They were bringing Laurent forward to execute him. Aimeric let himself look at the Regent, saw the sad way he regarded his nephew, and finally, finally, noticed how false it was. This was what the Regent had planned for. Aimeric recognized the act for what it was, knew that beneath the disappointed expression the Regent was triumphant in his perceived victory.

“No final advice?” Laurent said, brought before the Council and his uncle, held by a soldier on each arm. “No uncle’s kiss of affection?”

“You had so much promise,” said the Regent. Aimeric felt a hand slide into his own - Jord’s, he realized. “I regret what you became more than you do.”

“You mean that I’m on your conscience?” Laurent asked.

He was fighting back, he wasn’t going down easily, he had to have a plan.  _ Whatever you’re going to do _ , Aimeric thought, desperately,  _ do it now-- _

“You should have known better than to bring Guion to testify against me,” the Regent said.

“But uncle,” Laurent replied, “Guion isn’t who I brought.”

Aimeric felt rather than saw the moment when his mother stepped forward. He watched, awestruck, as she said, “He brought me.”

He squeezed Jord’s hand,  _ hard _ , and Jord didn’t make a sound. He wanted to go to his mother’s side. He stayed where he was as she walked forward and addressed the Council.

“I have something to say.” Her voice rang clearly through the hall, hushed now as all attention was focused on her. “It’s about my husband, and this man, the Regent, who has brought my family into ruin, and nearly robbed me of my youngest son, Aimeric.”

Aimeric was trembling. Jord kept hold of his hand, and he felt another hand on his arm - he didn’t know whose, couldn’t look away from his mother. He guessed that it was Lazar’s. Whether or not he was right didn’t matter, right now, as his father asked, “Loyse, what are you doing?”

Loyse moved to stand beside Damen. “In the year after Marlas, the Regent visited my family in Fortaine. And my husband, who is ambitious, gave him leave to enter the bedroom of our youngest son.”

Lazar’s grip tightened on his arm. He heard Lydos, somewhere behind him, whisper, “Aimeric, is that true--”

“Loyse, stop this now.” His father. Aimeric couldn’t breathe.

She didn’t stop. She just kept going, no matter how her husband laughed and tried to discredit her story. She kept going, kept talking.

“I know that no one here cares about Aimeric,” she said, and Jord squeezed his hand, and he knew she meant the Council, and the Regent, not her or Jord or Lazar or Lydos, his friends, his  _ friends _ \-- “No one cares that the Regent abused him, and tried to use him to bring down the Prince. So let me tell you instead what my son was hurt for - a plot between the Regent and Kastor to kill King Theomedes and then to take his country.” 

The next few moments went by in a blur. Kastor called for Loyse’s arrest, and it was the grips of Lazar and Jord on him that kept him from leaping to her defense. He didn’t see how Herode and Chelaut looked at him, how horrified they were at this revelation. He didn’t hear his father’s desperate attempts to mitigate Loyse’s testimony, and the ring she’d brought as proof. He barely heard Chelaut’s reluctant dismissal of said testimony as a means to clear Laurent’s name. 

He did, however, see Damen stand up, and he did hear what happened next.

Standing tall, despite his shackles, despite the soldiers beside him, Damen said, “There’s another man here who can testify.”

\- - -

Paschal’s story came out slowly, but steadily, and when it was done, when Herode had been handed the letters from Paschal’s brother, the hall was silent. It was something no one had expected, not even Laurent, judging by the look on his face. Something so asinine not even those who knew how the Regent had been plotting against his own nephew would predict.

_ This is the proof that King Aleron was killed by his own brother. _

“You can’t believe this? The lies of a physician and a boy whore?”

Loyse had come back to Aimeric’s side, by then. He saw, in the corner of his eye, how her lips thinned, how her expression tightened. He wondered, for the first time, why she had married his father. He wondered, for the first time, what kind of marriage that must have been, and what she must have suffered all these years.

“Nicaise had more nobility in him than you,” Herode said. “He was more loyal to the Crown than the Council, in the end.”

Herode was still holding the golden sceptre, the one with which he would have pronounced Laurent’s death sentence. Instead, as he came forward from the Council’s seats, he used it to help him walk. 

He stopped before Laurent, and said, “We were here to hold the throne in trust, and we failed you. My King.”

When he knelt, Laurent looked....shocked. Like he hadn’t actually expected this to happen. The expression didn’t change as the rest of the Council, one by one, left their seats to kneel beside Herode in front of their King. 

“The Council has been deceived into treason,” the Regent said. Aimeric risked a glance, saw that he didn’t even look worried. “Take them.”

The order wasn’t followed. Instead, a soldier said, “You’re not my King,” and dropped the insignia from his shoulder at the Regent’s feet.

It was as if a seal had been broken. The Veretian soldiers that had been standing at the Regent’s side began leaving, dropping their insignias, moving to Laurent’s side. At some point one of them cut through Laurent’s bonds, and he stood, freed of his shackles, before his uncle, with the might of Vere behind him. 

“You’ve lost,” Laurent said, calmly.

Herode was raising the sceptre. “The Council will now make its ruling,” he said. It was happening. The Regent was condemned to death.  _ This was happening. _

Aimeric’s breath came too quickly, his chest tight. The Regent was still talking, still trying to argue his way out of his sentence. Still trying to tear Laurent down, even now. Jord had let go of his hand; Laurent’s orders trumped even that, in this moment. Jord had joined the other Veretian soldiers.

His mother, however, was still there. She pressed into his side and whispered, “Don’t look.”

But he did look. He couldn’t  _ not _ look. He watched as the Regent was forced to his knees, as the boy who’d been sitting with him tried to stop what was going to happen. Laurent ordered his men to take the boy away, and his orders were followed. Once the boy was gone, the Regent’s sentence was carried out.

_ Don’t look. _ He had to see it. He wouldn’t look away, not like he did when those Vaskian raiders were whipped. He watched the soldier raise his sword, watched how he brought it down, severing the Regent’s head from his neck in one clean blow.

He watched how the head rolled across the floor, how, for an instant, there seemed to be recognition in the eyes he’d once thought kind. Like the Regent knew what had happened to him, even after he’d been decapitated. Aimeric stared for far longer than he should have, unable to tear his gaze away, until someone was touching his face and suddenly his mother was there, in front of him, pulling his head down to look at her instead.

“Don’t look,” she repeated. “Just know that he’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

He didn’t get a chance to answer. The soldiers from both nations were mobilizing, following the orders of Laurent and Damen. Kastor’s men were still loose in the palace, as was Kastor himself; they were to secure Ios for Damianos, and take down the men who remained loyal to the bastard king. All Aimeric could do was kiss his mother’s hand and say, “Be safe,” before he went off with the rest of the Veretians, joining Jord and Lazar as they left the hall.

Fighting in the narrow halls of an Akielon palace was different from fighting out in the open, but in the end, where it mattered, it was the same. Kill the enemy. Survive. Win the day so that you could fight again tomorrow. Aimeric felt the training at Nesson, the battle at Hellay, keeping him going. These were nameless Akielons. They weren’t Orlant. They weren’t friends. They were enemies of his King and he would kill them, if he had to, to protect Laurent.

As soon as the conflict had begun, it was over. Aimeric stood, panting, in the middle of a hallway filled with the bodies of Kastor’s guard. There were other soldiers around him, mostly Veretian, some Akielons who had changed sides. Slowly, he lowered his sword, let the blood coating its blade drip onto the floor. It was over. They had, as far as he could see, taken out Kastor’s forces. 

He walked away. They’d won. The Regent was dead. Kastor was likely dead. Damen and Laurent had gotten what they wanted. 

He ended up on one of the palace’s many balconies. Nobody stopped him; they were busy dealing with the aftermath of the battle. No time could be spared for the Veretian soldier who was walking, as if in a trance, through the halls. He found a balcony and let himself sink into leaning against the railing, looking out over the city of Ios as night fell. Laurent would be busy for a while yet; he could stay here until he was needed.

That’s where Jord found him, leaning on the railing, staring out at the city. 

He felt Jord’s hand on his back first, a gentle slide up his spine to his shoulders. “It’s over,” Jord said, then, his fingers resting against the nape of Aimeric’s neck. “It’s over.”

Aimeric huffed out a breath. “I know. We won. Laurent is King. The Regent is dead. Everything we’ve been working for came to pass.”

He knew he didn’t sound very convincing, and so he wasn’t surprised when Jord moved closer, a warm weight at his back. “That bothers you,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“No, I’m glad for it, it’s just--” Aimeric dragged a hand down his face. “This is everything I never wanted, and I made it happen. Where do I go from here? The Prince will see my father dead. What about me?” 

The hand at his neck dropped so that it could curl around his waist, instead. “You helped the Prince when he needed you to,” Jord said, voice soft against his ear. “You were loyal to him. He won’t forget that.”

“Like he won’t forget how I tried to betray him.” Aimeric’s breath came in shallow bursts, his worries overwhelming everything else. “I can’t say I don’t deserve it. There’s no place for a fourth son.”

“ _ Aimeric, _ ” Jord snapped, and Aimeric flinched, going silent. 

He felt the arm around his waist draw him closer, felt Jord nuzzle against his temple. “Please,” Jord whispered. “Please don’t talk like that. You fought for Laurent, just like the rest of us. I’ll make sure he sees that.”

He couldn’t argue against the pleading in Jord’s voice, and so he said nothing, instead leaning into the contact. He was still afraid that Laurent would have him executed as a traitor, considering the fact that he had, at one point, been a traitor, but when he was relaxing in Jord’s arms, he found himself thinking of a different future. A positive future. With the solid weight of Jord behind him, Aimeric let himself imagine a future where they could be together, where his past actions wouldn’t haunt them.

Maybe, if he thought about it hard enough, he could will it into existence. 


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kastor and the Regent are dead; Laurent and Damen have claimed their rightful places as Kings of Vere and Akielos. But what happens after that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, NOW we made it. I never thought this fic would get so long when I first started it, and yet here we are. dang diddly
> 
> this bit's very self-indulgent, and I've been sitting on it for a while. I'm gonna have my happy ending cake and eat it too, dangit
> 
> today's theme: Where Are They Now?

Aimeric willed it into existence. Sort of.

After their talk on the balcony, he and Jord had made their way back to the main hall to await Laurent’s orders. Jord took his hand again and Aimeric held tight, refusing to let go despite the circumstances.

He had a slash along his ribs. Jord had a bruise forming under his cheek. Both of them waited with the soldiers that had gathered after the battle, and Aimeric forced himself to stand straight when relief weakened his knees at seeing that Lazar was safe.

When Laurent did arrive and give them their orders, a lot of it was fuzzy. Aimeric heard Laurent say that Damen had been taken to Paschal for treatment of a stab wound. The assembled soldiers were to secure the palace and make sure Kastor’s - and the Regent’s - men had been apprehended or killed.

When Laurent was done, Aimeric meant to leave with the others, but Laurent called him by name, told him to stay. And that was when the new King of Vere told him he would be the next Lord of Fortaine.

Aimeric was so shocked he almost said no. He saw his father, in the corner of the hall, restrained by soldiers. He knew what would become of Ambassador Guion. But he had three brothers ahead of him, all in line to take the title before he could--

“Guion will be executed, as well as his eldest son,” Laurent said, bluntly, as if reading Aimeric’s mind. He felt his chest tighten. “What happens to the your second and third brothers depends on their defense of their actions. All the same, I am the King now, and I can appoint lords as I please. I would prefer to have at least one border lord who is loyal to me; can you say that will be you, or shall I give Fortaine to someone else entirely?”

Tired, bloodied, and strung out, Aimeric still found it in himself to set his jaw and say, “No. I will pledge myself to you. Fortaine is mine.”

It was later that he learned Jord was to be the Captain of his guard. Jord had asked for the transfer himself, he was told, and Laurent had granted it. Which meant that, while Laurent and Damen took care of affairs in Ios, Aimeric and Jord would be traveling back to Fortaine together, along with an entourage of soldiers befitting a man of Aimeric’s station.

The journey felt shorter than that of Karthas to Kingsmeet, even with his mother’s wagon. They no longer had to worry about border sentries or hiding. Word had spread quickly through Akielos that the true King had taken his throne, that Kastor was dead, and all it took was the royally-sealed letter Damen had given him to get their group through each checkpoint.

He even had an aristocrat’s tent, draped with silks, fitted with a collapsible bed. The first night they camped out on the fields of Akielos, Jord would come to his tent to find Aimeric lying, face down, on said bed, nose buried in the silken pillow. Attempts to rouse him only earned distracted grunts, until Jord chuckled and gently slid into place at Aimeric’s side.

While it was certainly a shorter trip back than it had been there, it still took almost three weeks to reach Fortaine, especially since they stopped at Karthas to see how Vannes and Makedon were doing. Which was, surprisingly, very well; apparently, Aimeric learned upon arrival, Vannes had managed to outdrink Makedon one night, and the two had been close friends ever since. He was reminded strongly of their last night at Marlas.

The men of Fortaine were well trained, in that they didn't show their shock when Aimeric arrived, brandishing a letter and signet ring - Laurent’s ring - that gave him ownership of the fort. No one asked about his father or the fate of the Regent, which was just as well; Aimeric didn’t want to talk about that. He didn’t want to think about the blade that took the Regent’s head from his neck, or how his father would soon follow, probably already had, forced to kneel on a cold stone floor while soldiers held swords over him.

His mother didn’t say anything, either. It had been a topic carefully avoided during their journey back, and Aimeric knew neither of them were ready to breach it yet. He let her keep the rooms she and his father had lived in; he couldn’t imagine taking them for his own, anyway. They were traditionally the Lord and Lady’s rooms, but it wouldn’t take much shifting for a new set of apartments to be regarded that way instead. It wasn’t like the rest of the royal residences in the fort were any lesser in quality, really.

All of his old things would be moved from his childhood bedroom to his new rooms. He stood outside the door for a long time, until Jord appeared, put a hand on his shoulder.

He hadn’t expected Jord's presence so soon; he had a lot of duties to attend to, now that he was replacing the Captain who’d served under Guion.

“I’ve got some ideas for the Guard,” Jord said, quietly, into Aimeric’s ear. “Do you think the new Lord will like them?” And Aimeric laughed, and turned to pull Jord down into a kiss.

\- - -

The news of his father’s execution, his eldest brother’s, came not long after they reached Fortaine. His other two brothers were alive, but stripped of rank. It hurt, sort of, in a way Aimeric dimly acknowledged, yet not as much as he’d expected. What hurt most was how quiet his mother became, in the days following Laurent’s correspondence. Even with his new responsibilities, Aimeric made time to be with her, the two of them sitting together in his eldest brother’s old room. He held her hand, and she rested her cheek on his shoulder, and they sat like that for a long while, neither saying a word. There was nothing they could say, really, and speaking into the emptiness of the room would only make it worse.

Otherwise, he settled more easily into his father’s role than he’d ever thought he could. Sure, it had always been a fantasy of his, a world where the order of his birth didn’t matter and he could be the heir of Fortaine, and he’d trained in court manners with that wish always sitting in the back of his mind. That didn’t mean he’d ever believed it could come true, and so for the first few weeks he walked the fort in a daze, still half expecting that he would wake up in his tent on the fields of Nesson and find out it had all been a very elaborate dream.

Reality, stubbornly, did not dissolve into the hazy half-remembered wakefulness of a dream. The days wore on, and Aimeric was still in charge of Fortaine.

It wasn’t all perfect. Sometimes, Aimeric had nightmares. He never had many, as a boy, so he was unprepared for the force of it, how real it felt. In the dreams, he was lying in Jord’s arms, but in his childhood bedroom instead of the new rooms he had chosen. He would awaken and sit up just in time to see the door open.

The Regent would step in, quietly, smiling gently. He would come close to the bed, rest his hand on the mattress. The way he used to. The way Aimeric remembered.

And then, slowly, his head would slide off his neck, dropping to the floor with a sickly thud. It would roll across the stone until it came to a rest beside where Aimeric lay, and it would look at him with sightless eyes as it said, “You’re such a good boy.”

Aimeric always woke with a start, shaking, skin clammy. Some nights Jord slept on and he willed himself to be calm so as not to wake him. Most nights, however, Jord would stir, somehow sensing Aimeric’s distress, and he would end up holding Aimeric close, stroking his hair, until the tremors died away.

Not that having Jord with him wasn’t strange in itself. A Lord shouldn’t be fucking the Captain of his Guard; that’s what pets were for, and fellow aristocrats from the court. Aimeric didn’t care. Every night he brought Jord to his bed, even if Jord had his own rooms as befitting his station, even if they didn’t always have sex. He found it difficult to fall asleep on his own, these days, even when he wasn’t having nightmares. And maybe his staff ( _his staff_ ) found it strange, and maybe sometimes Jord seemed uncomfortable with the glances that came his way. Aimeric didn’t let it stop him.

He didn’t have to, he realized at one point. He was in charge, now. No one but Laurent, really, or one of the Councillors, could tell him what to do. The power was heady, and there were times where he found himself dizzy with it.

Like the night when he lay with his cheek over Jord’s heart, safe within the circle of Jord’s arms, and Jord said, “You’ll need to sire a heir, at some point.”

Aimeric didn’t lift his head. He’d been dozing before, and now his eyes were wide open, staring off at nothing. He let the silence fill with the sounds of their breathing as he gathered enough words to answer that. Eventually, he said,

“I have enough nephews. Nieces, too.”

He didn’t need to look to know Jord was frowning. “But that’s not--”

“My sister, Mathilde, she has two boys. She was always the kindest to me, still writes when she can. Her eldest is very smart, she’s always talking about him.”

Jord was quiet. Aimeric tried not to dwell on that, or how his heart raced. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be, for a Lord. But it was how he wanted things to be.

The silence became almost excruciating, and Aimeric wondered if Jord wouldn’t understand. He hadn’t even told his mother, yet had thought when he finally said something that Jord would be the one, above all, who would see why he’d made this decision. He didn’t want a wife. He didn’t want to have a child, he couldn’t think of a younger version of him, a pretty peach with soft curls who might catch the eye of an older man--

“Sometimes,” Jord said, finally, “I think there’s nothing else you can say or do that will surprise me. And then you prove me wrong.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Aimeric asked, vulnerable, and felt the rumble of Jord’s chuckle, the soft press of lips to his hair.

“No.”

\- - -

It felt strange, being part of the court after nearly a year as a guardsman. Laurent of course took his sweet time in returning from Ios, and when the summons came Aimeric stared at the letter for a long time. He was invited to Arles as Lord of Fortaine. He would arrive via escort and discuss the future of Vere with its new King.

He, Aimeric, useless fourth son, would be paramount in deciding on where Vere would go from here.

He left his mother in charge of the fort, as well as one of the senior guardsmen, and with Jord at his side they rode out the next day. A year ago Aimeric’s blood would have boiled at how quickly he was expected to respond. Now, it was his duty to his King, and he felt pride in it. Despite what he’d tried to do, in the end Laurent had repaid his change of heart, and won Aimeric’s full loyalty in return.

His presence in Arles was greeted pleasantly, politely, the court accepting him with a warmth he could by now recognize as fake. They didn’t know what to make of him, just as they likely hadn’t known what to make of Laurent upon his return. It didn’t matter; Aimeric’s position was sturdy, and he greeted them with the same pleasantries. No one pointed out how his manicured hands now bore the calluses of a soldier, or that the way he walked now went beyond an aristocrat, that his hard work had lent a power to his gait that none of the soft courtiers bore. He did catch snippets of gossip, of course, passed along by his servants. ‘The Soldier Lord’, they were calling him. Likely as an insult, as no true aristocrat would dare let himself be caught with hands that were less than perfect, unmarred by work, soft and silken.

Aimeric didn’t care how they meant it. He liked the nickname.

\- - -

When they returned from Arles, Laurent’s _extremely_ optimistic plan for unification swirling in his thoughts, he was still wondering how in the world Laurent thought that could ever work. It was true that there had once been a kingdom that crossed the borders of Akielos and Vere - the ruins still existed, he’d seen them plenty of times along their journey from Arles to Ios - yet that had been centuries ago. The wounds between Vere and Akielos now were too new, too fresh, Delfeur only just having been returned to Vere control after being wrested away six years ago. Laurent had to be joking.

“Surely it can’t be impossible for Vere and Akielos to come together in peace,” Laurent had drawled at the time. “Don’t you still keep in touch with Lydos?”

He did, but he didn’t have the opportunity to argue that a small group of men driven together by circumstance was not the same as the union of two nations that had been enemies for years. The other assembled Lords, the Council, they had all argued over him. It made Aimeric wonder how Damen was faring in Akielos, where he was proposing the same thing.

It did give him an idea, however, and upon returning to Fortaine, he announced that he would host a boar hunt, and that he would be inviting trusted friends from Akielos. The fort didn’t quite know how to take it - even Jord was surprised - but he was in charge, and Vere and Akielos were at peace, and Laurent had already decreed any Akielons on Vere soil were to be treated with respect and hospitality.

“Are you sure this is such a good idea,” Jord asked him, quietly.

“No,” Aimeric said. “But if he wants to bring us together, we have to start somewhere.”

He didn’t invite Damen or Nikandros for obvious reasons. He did, however, write to Lydos, Aktis, and Pallas, and even Makedon, who he later found out was now kyros of Sicyon, which was quite the promotion. He did, of course, also write to Lazar, who had taken up a position in the Guard at Marlas. To be closer to Pallas, Aimeric knew, not that Lazar would ever admit that upfront.

And, surprisingly, they all came. Even Makedon had apparently found the time to come to the hunt, saying that it would be good practice for when he finally hunted with Laurent. He also, he said, wanted to test the new Lord of Fortaine’s mettle; Aimeric anticipated he would be very, _very_ hungover the next day.

It was good to see them all again, and Aimeric realized that he had missed them. Missed this, their easy camaraderie borne of those days of traveling together to bring Laurent and Damen to Kingsmeet. He didn’t know if Vere and Akielos could truly unite, but he did know that being able to see his friends again, despite the tension between their nations, was a blessing.

The hunt itself was an exhilarating affair. Pallas was the one to take the boar, which Aimeric, remembering the okton, had expected. He was somewhat worried as to how his Veretian guests would react, and there was a moment of bruised pride in the air that made him tense - and then Lazar dragged Pallas in by the collar and kissed him, hard, in front of everyone, and the atmosphere shifted, the Akielons rolling their eyes good-naturedly at the display, while the Veretians hooted and teased.

“You know,” Lydos said, as they returned to the fort, “You ride very well.”

There was a flirtatious note to it that made Aimeric’s face warm, and he meant to remind Lydos, gently, that he wasn’t interested, when his eyes flicked away, toward where Jord was riding at an easy pace beside Aktis, the two deep in conversation. An idea occurred, and instead Aimeric gave Lydos a coy grin.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Later, when they were in the main hall enjoying drink and food, Aimeric managed to slip away to find Jord before Makedon caught him. Jord, who was in a side hall giving orders to some of his guard; Aimeric waited for them to disperse before he came up beside him and draped against his side.

“You should take the night off,” Aimeric purred. Jord looked down at him, amused.

“If my Lord commands it.”

“I do.” He offered the cup of wine he carried. “Here, have this. I’m sure Makedon has some Akielon brew to give me that will put me on the floor.”

Jord chuckled, and drank. Aimeric watched him for a moment, then, casually, said, “Did you know that Lydos wanted to bed me, when we were traveling to Kingsmeet?”

“I hadn’t.” Now Jord’s brows knit, a light confusion at the sudden change in topic.

“I turned him down because I had you.” Jord hummed his understanding, took another drink as Aimeric continued, “Earlier, however, I was thinking...he’s going to be here a few days, and I think he’s still interested. Maybe he could join us…?”

Jord choked on the wine, and Aimeric bit his lip on a smile as he rubbed Jord’s back. Well, that had certainly gotten his attention.

“I,” Jord said, “I...wouldn’t be opposed. Though I doubt you’ll be up to it once Makedon is done with you.”

Aimeric snorted. “No, not likely. But, as I said, we have a few days. We’ve got time.”

He could see the interest in Jord’s eyes, and grinned. Taking Jord’s hand, he started pulling him along, back to the main hall. “We’d best go back before Makedon starts to think I’m trying to duck out of this drinking contest.”

“If the King kept pace with him,” Jord said, twining their fingers, “I think you should be alright.”

\- - -

Aimeric didn’t end up on the floor, at least. He had, however, been correct in predicting that he would wake up with a very bad hangover. Lazar oh so helpfully provided him with his special hangover cure, and as he handed it over he was just as smug as he’d been at Marlas.

It seemed to do the trick, for the most part, in that Aimeric was only miserable for part of the day. In the end, it was enough. If any trace of hangover remained, Aimeric didn’t let it stop him from discovering, the next night, that he’d also been correct about Lydos: he was, indeed, a gentle and giving lover. In addition, he painted a very pretty picture when rumpled and flushed on Aimeric’s bed and made the most _wonderful_ noises when you touched him just right.

\- - -

Having Akielon guests during the hunt had made the inhabitants of Fortaine somewhat used to the idea of becoming closer with Akielos, and for that Aimeric was relieved. Hosting a hunt like that could have very easily gone wrong; his guests could have been accosted, or worse, especially when drink was involved. Yet it had gone more the way of Marlas, with stories of Makedon’s drinking abilities spreading throughout the fort the day after the hunt, as well as awe at Pallas’ skill with a spear. By the time they left (with Lydos thanking them for the ‘hospitality’, as well as promising he would visit again soon), opinions of Akielons still weren’t where they could be, they were much better than they had been. His first real political decision, in a sense, and it had succeeded.

And Laurent’s plan to unite Vere and Akielos continued. Aimeric wondered how he felt, being separated from Damen like this. It was, if he thought about it, possibly the longest the two had been apart since Damen was first brought to Arles.

One night, as he and Jord were preparing for bed, Jord asked, “What do you think of the King’s unification efforts?”

Aimeric was partially turned away, standing still while servants undressed him. He glanced over at Jord, then, saw the slightly stiff way he held himself as another pair of servants did the same for him. Jord had never gotten used to this, and despite his efforts to hide it, he always radiated discomfort at the fact that he wasn’t undoing the laces on his own jackets. Aimeric, meanwhile, had come back to the practice as if to an old friend; he’d had a lot of trouble doing it himself when he first joined the Prince’s Guard.

“I think,” Aimeric said plainly, “that it’s stupid.”

Stripped down to their sleepwear, the two were left alone. Jord’s eyebrows rose.

“You would truly doubt our King, after everything?”

The corner of Aimeric’s lip quirked, and he stepped forward, taking the undone laces at Jord’s collar in hand and gently curling them around his fingers. “Oh, I don’t doubt him. I think it’s stupid, but I know he’ll find a way to make it work. No matter what trouble he runs into, he always twists his way out of it.”

“He does,” Jord murmured, his arms coming around Aimeric in a loose hold. “And now he has Damen, too. He’s not doing this alone anymore.”

“No, he isn’t,” Aimeric agreed, leaning into the embrace. Jord was so warm, his presence instilling a sense of safety in Aimeric that he was only recently growing used to. He thought of how he’d felt when he’d first left Fortaine for Arles, and said, “And neither am I.”

Jord smiled, leaned down to meet Aimeric’s lips with his own. Aimeric slid his hands up to Jord’s shoulders as they kissed, and let himself bask in the truth that he would never, ever, be alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINITE
> 
> find me on tumblr at blackgoliath, or on pillowfort at bulkhead


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